The breath of aoles 152x229 5 first chapters

Alan Spade

Ardalia Volume One : The Breath of Aoles

Aknowledgements

Special thanks to Kristine Kathryn Rusch, an extraordinary lady and USA Today Best-seller writer (she has a great blog for readers and authors, http://kriswrites.com/ ), who helped me to meet Stephen Harmon.

A great thank you to Stephen Harmon, who has proved so precious when it was time to make the novel smoother. Best of luck on your own writing career, Steve.

Finally, thank you Ingrid Hall for the professional editing of the novel: http://ingridhall.wordpress.com/

For Lawrence, who, in the middle of the tunnel, guided me toward the light

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Chapter One A TANNER’S DESTINY

It was hot in the tannery even though the doors and windows allowed constant airflow. Unfortunately, in the first months of the renewal, the air in the Canyons of Panjurub was already hot and dry. In the workshop, the fetid scent of dead flesh and tannin permeated everything.

Even the hevelens’ sensitive noses could hardly distinguish the odor of their own sweat from the all-encompassing smells of the tannery.

The only clothes worn by the six tanners as they cut the hides and tanned them were a loincloth and light sandals. Like the majority of their fellow citizens living in Durepeaux, the six had shorn heads.

Sweat glistened from their coppery skin, and ran into their globular eyes, but did not slow down the activity of their four-fingered hands in the slightest.

The youngest of the tanners was named Pelmen Arimal. Over the years, the flint he was using had gashed his hairy skin and covered his hands with similar scars. He mopped his brow, watching his father Zenel from the corner of his eye. Zenel, a hevelen with a wrinkled face and yellow eyes, was busy plunging pelts into the tannin baths. His gestures were precise and sure.

Pelmen sighed. Sometimes, he envied the serenity which never seemed to abandon his father. He was far from feeling it himself. On the contrary; when he pictured his father’s life, the life of a simple laborer, living and dying a tanner, he could not help feeling sick at heart. The idea such a destiny might be his was almost more than he could stand! So many things in the world waited to be discovered, and yet he was expected to remain here, practically cloistered in this miserable stinking place?

Zenel’s response to his son’s discontent was one of disarming

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simplicity: “I don’t know how to do anything else.” A casual observer might have believed he was simply resigned to his fate, but the truth was even worse. Pelmen knew that his father loved his job, what he couldn’t get his head around, was why? Perhaps he had come to delight in the stench which enveloped him every morning when he went into the workshop and from then on, assaulted the nostrils at the slightest movement… Maybe he had come to appreciate the company of the parasites infesting the nidepoux hides, which covered him with lumps all day long, making his skin almost as hard as wood. That did not even make Zenel blink. It often felt as if Pelmen and his father had been cast from two completely different molds!

The hours went by, interminably, and Pelmen summoned up an image of Alicene, as he often did, just to get him through the day. Her delicate features, her pretty hooked nose and her rounded cheeks represented the ultimate island of beauty to which he could cling. She was so far away, and as inaccessible as the Goddess Tinmal, and yet she lived so close at hand!

Galn Boisencroix, the girl’s father, was a carpenter and master craftsman in Falsine, the next town over. If the order of things had been respected, a simple tanner, a Disinherited like Pelmen, would almost never have had the opportunity to even cross his path, but… *** After work, Pelmen has come to watch the son of the carpenter of Falsine, as has become his habit since the day when Zenel first took him in search of tannin. Teleg, with a smile on his lips, is plying his flint in a lively manner, and the wood chips are piling up at his feet. Pelmen is happy. Teleg knows that he is only a Disinherited, and yet he welcomes Pelmen’s company, letting him watch as he cuts or polishes the wood. Some time ago, the young hevelen with the blond curls doubtless guessed Pelmen would have preferred working with wood instead of bloody flesh and hide. Pelmen would never admit that, of course. To do so would be improper, not to mention downright rude. He simply considers himself lucky to be here and very lucky that Teleg takes an interest in him, asking for details of his activity at the tannery.

Pelmen finds himself wondering whether Alicene will turn up today. Teleg’s

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sister seems to spend most of her time inside the Boisencroix house; he only catches fleeting glimpses of her while she is gardening—with two exceptions, at least.

Twice, she has come nearer to greet him, and twice surprise and emotion have prevented Pelmen from replying. He feels troubled and stupid just thinking about it.

She is so beautiful, and so refined in comparison with the girls in Durepeaux.

Pelmen wishes with all of his heart that there is a way in which he could watch her for hours without her being aware.

His heart begins to beat more rapidly. The door of the house has just opened, and he is about to see…

A sigh of disappointment escapes his lips, for it is not Alicene but her father, Master Galn who has appeared. Of average height, with chiseled features and pale gray hair, Master Galn is as solidly built as the objects he manufactures. He has a large bow slung over his shoulder and is carrying a smaller one by the shaft.

“It’s time, son,” he says, holding out Teleg’s bow. Teleg raises his head, takes the weapon, and turns to put his flint away, with the piece of wood that will sooner or later be transformed into a statuette on display in the house.

An awkward silence hangs in the air as Pelmen and Master Galn look at one another. Teleg’s father has the same mauve eyes like his son—or rather, obviously, the other way around. Master Galn gives him a smile but Pelmen looks away.

He knows that he shouldn’t be there; just how can the master craftsman even tolerate his presence?

Pelmen has just taken a backward step when Teleg reappears.

“What about Wide-Eyes?” asks Master Galn. “Does he want to come?”

Eyebrows arched, Pelmen looks at the pair in turn. Master Galn has winked at him while asking the question, but seems to be addressing Teleg. Perhaps it is some kind of private code. Teleg bursts into a belly laugh, which only adds to Pelmen’s embarrassment.

“He’s asking whether you want to come with us. Yes, you’re Wide-Eyes, because you always look so awestruck! My father likes giving people nicknames. So, are you coming or not? We’re going to draw the bow.”

Come? Come! Pelmen can’t believe that they are seriously asking him to go with them! The sight of them waiting patiently for a response, terrifies him to the point where he is tempted to turn on his heels and run. At the same time, he knows that if he gives in to fear, he will not have the courage to come back again. His adventures would be over, there would be nothing left for him, but the stifling tannery and the inn across the way, where he would be obliged to mingle with the tan-

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ners and the other Disinherited of Durepeaux—to become one of them.

The lump in his throat prevents him from speaking, and so in the end, he simply nods his head.

“This way,” says Master Galn.

As they walk down Falsine Hill, taking a side-path and going into a rocky corridor, Pelmen expects to be sent away at any moment. So he chooses to walk in silence, biding his time, desperate to delay the inevitable disappointment.

At the end of the corridor, wooden stakes have been partly buried and stabilized by stones heaped at their base. Astonished to be still here, Pelmen watches as Teleg takes up a position fifty paces from the targets. His thin arm trembles slightly, as he barely skims one of the stakes.

Master Galn takes his turn, setting himself up at one hundred paces. The cactus thorn arrows leap from his bow, flying straight and true under the flabbergasted gaze of the young tanner, who experiences a sense of joy every time the Master hits his mark. Three out of four! Then Master Galn walks over to his son, coaching him with expert advice. Without even realizing it, Pelmen inches to within earshot, listening intently, hanging on every word, and his avid attention does not escape the gaze of Master Galn. Teleg tries again, and this time, he hit the bottom of the stake.

“Hey, Wide-Eyes, do you want to try?”

Pelmen’s eyes grow even wider. Master Galn is standing expectantly in front of him, with no sign of mockery in his facial expression. Pelmen dares not respond as Master Galn turns to his son, smiling. “Lend him your bow, Teleg.”

Pelmen swallows as he accepts the bow which is held out to him, but is trembling so much that he fears he will make a fool of himself. Teleg’s sly expression confirms his suspicions; that the father and son have only brought him there to have a little fun at his expense.

“I…I…” he stammers.

Pelmen feels comforted when Master Galn places his strong hand on his shoulder. “Take your time, lad,” the older man murmurs. “Breathe. There. Place your feet one in front of the other, like this.”

The first thorn barely travels a dozen paces, causing Teleg to smile. When the second slips from Pelmen’s grasp to bounce at his feet, the blond-haired young hevelen starts howling with laughter. Shooting a sharp glance at his son, Master Galn is quick to reassure Pelmen.

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“Don’t worry, that’s normal, in the beginning. You have to concentrate on the tip of the arrow and your target. Set your shoulders like this. Come on, lad, give yourself time. Relax and breathe. Draw the cord back, without hurrying; then, when your right hand is next to your ear, let fly. Go on.”

So many things to remember! But the guiding voice is friendly, and Pelmen, his brow furrowed, does his best not to forget any of them. The last two draws are taut, the darts flying more than fifty paces, with Pelmen even getting close to one of the stakes. He feels like he’s flying with the thorns, an intoxicating sensation.

Nothing would please him more than to try again.

“Promising,” says Master Galn, looking him in the eyes. “Very promising.

You’ll have to come back.” Then the master craftsman turns to his son. “You see— you should never judge someone by the class into which he is born. Remember that.” *** Pelmen’s throat had become as abrasive as a pebble when the door to the shop finally opened. The stout form of Master Olgen Peaudecuir, clad in trousers and a sleeveless tunic, appeared in the doorway.

Scarcely had the overseer given the signal for the end of the workday than Pelmen leapt to his feet and hurried toward the shed. He retrieved the family pitcher and went out into the dusty, perpetually windswept street. His triple nostrils dilated as he filled his lungs with the particleladen air. The heat and the dust it carried were unimportant; the wind was a veritable blessing.

His bones clicked when he stretched. The sky was perfectly yellow, without a single cloud. Up above, Astar, the red Sun-God, more imposing than the largest building in Durepeaux, was gradually sinking.

Soon he would set everything ablaze with his rays before disappearing beyond the horizon.

A queue had already formed at the village well. From the height of his five feet, Pelmen loomed over the majority of those forming it.

The tannery workers lined up behind him, arguing with one another. It was a question of the establishment versus the quality of the camlorn beer and the eventual presence of Syala, one of the most attractive serving girls. Pelmen only lent a distracted ear to what they were saying. Master Linen’s inn was not for him.

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A long covered cart with furled sails was parked in front of the entrance. Sitting at the front, a hooded silhouette appeared to be meditating. A second individual standing at the rear intrigued Pelmen. A corpulent hevelen with bracelets on his wrists and thick black hair, damp with sweat, the stranger was staring at him and had perhaps been doing so for some time. When their gazes met, he turned away and set about unloading barrels from the cart.

Pelmen frowned. The person at the front did not move a muscle to help his companion.

Odd fellows, those two, he thought.

When his turn came, Pelmen took hold of the well’s handle.

Many villagers only partly filled their bucket in order to be able to bring it back up without too much difficulty. Immersing it, Pelmen filled it to the brim. His muscles had been well-developed by long hours spent cutting hides, so bringing up a full bucket hardly taxed him. He hoisted the bucket onto the rim of the well and leaned over momentarily, contemplating his reflection in the green-tinted water. Two eyes with large black pupils circled by brown irises stared back at him, not without bitterness. Fatigue was legible in his oval face.

Realizing that there was a queue of people waiting, he hastened to transfer the bucket’s contents to his pitcher and stand aside.

Delighted, he washed his face. The cold water ran down his neck, stimulating his senses.

Pelmen headed for the family home, leaving behind the tannery workers who were still talking about unimportant matters. He gave no further thought to the hevelen with the cart, who had again interrupted his unloading, and was watching him intently.

The little house with a thatched roof and shabby walls had nothing remarkable about it except its rather isolated location. Pelmen went around the back and turned toward Mils’ burrow. Silently, he lay down on the ground and tried to pierce the darkness of the hole. An eye returned his gaze, so he extended his hand to the entrance of the burrow. The ptat leaned toward the intruder and sniffed him before climbing up.

The animal must have fallen victim to disease because its right

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eye was perpetually closed, which was what had caught Pelmen’s attention when he had found it. All alone in the middle of a thicket, its cheek-pouches hanging down, starving and in distress, the rodent had obviously lost its parents. It was too young to feed itself, so Pelmen had picked it up and made the animal his loyal pet.

Pelmen extended his arm and the ptat ran up it, but before it reached the shoulder, he intercepted it with his other hand. He put it on the ground on its back, and set about stroking its belly with his index finger. The animal quivered all four paws in the air, without trying to right itself immediately. Pelmen started laughing. “What a little marvel you are,” he murmured.

Other people in the village had domesticated one of those bundles of ochre fur, but so far as he knew, Pelmen was the only one who had been able to train his ptat to stand on its hind legs or fetch him a twig without the promise of food. His mother, Dryna, was of the opinion that the rodent was motivated purely by its stomach, but Pelmen was sure she was mistaken, even though he couldn’t really explain why.

The stainflower field was only three hundred yards away.

Shielded from prying eyes, Pelmen rubbed the various parts of his body with the petals. Although the stench of the tannery did not disappear completely, the perfume of the stainflowers was strong enough to mask most of it.

As he went back into Durepeaux’s main street, a grinding sound accompanied by dry clicks echoed up and down its length. A sailcart approached, driven by the wind. Its point of departure—Alveg or Seledcha—was not difficult to guess, given that the wind always blew from east to west in the Canyons. The vehicle stopped near Nitayer’s farm.

Pelmen went through the village at a rapid pace. Having reached the first crossroads past the far end of town, he took the path that led to Falsine. He knew every stone in the road. He had walked it so often since the day, six years previously, when he and his father had traveled it by cart. The path climbed the slope of one of the rare hills in the Canyons where trees and plants grew. The resinian trees, almost seventy feet tall, with violet-tinted blue bark and yellow needles, clung to the soil as if their life depended on it. It did. The tall trees constantly strug-

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gled against the wind that seemed to be trying to uproot them. Mils huddled in the corner between its master’s shoulder and neck. From time to time, the animal changed shoulders or fidgeted until Pelmen finally ended up taking it in his hands.

There was a bend in the path. Down below, toward the northwest, the emerald-hued waters of Lake Subelin reflected Astar’s reddening rays. Pelmen did not linger over the breathtakingly beautiful tableau of fishing boats floating on the lake and the inlet lodging Port Subelin, which was the only city in the Canyons with a harbor. Nor did he pause to admire the flourishing vegetation or to amuse himself counting the quadrupeds grazing or digging in the ground.

A few branches and forks further along the path, as he went around a thorny bush, he glimpsed Teleg and his sister chatting on the threshold of their home, one of the few dwellings in Falsine with wooden walls. After all, Master Galn the carpenter lived there, and it simply would not do to have anything less. Alicene towered over her brother; she was nearly five feet tall, compared to Teleg’s four and a half.

Neither of them had noticed him. Pelmen slowed his pace, reluctant to approach. In Alicene’s presence, the perfume of the stainflowers seemed cheap and tawdry, and the reek of dead animals began to ooze from his entire body as if to spite him.

That evening, she was still wearing a beige dress; secured at the waist with a slender leather belt, which emphasized the slenderness and curves of her figure. She seemed to be setting aside her usual kneelength shorts and chanvreline jacket with increasing frequency.

According to Teleg, Alicene had accepted an invitation to dance with a boy at the last village fête, although she had previously preferred mending clothes or tidying the workshop. “If this goes on,” Teleg had said, “I’ll have to keep a closer eye on her.”

Pelmen couldn’t see his friend playing the guard-dog for his sister, especially when he never missed an opportunity to chase the girls and flirt with them himself.

“Come on!” Teleg called, when he noticed Pelmen’s presence.

“Don’t stand there with your mouth open—come and join us.”

Subtlety was not Teleg’s strong suit, but his talkative nature came in handy when he had to cover for Pelmen’s awkward silences

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and the blushes which often rose unbidden to his face. He walked forward a little too hastily and nearly stumbled when Alicene greeted him with a wave of her hand.

“My father wants to talk to you,” said Teleg, without any preamble. “He’s inside.”

“About your house move? Is it confirmed, then?”

Some weeks earlier—when his health had begun to decline— Master Galn had announced his plan to return to Alveg, where he had spent his childhood. His brother owned a carpentry workshop there, and Master Galn had suggested he might participate in the Exchange, a long-standing ritual observed every six springs. The Exchange involved the heads of the families in the two largest cities, Seledcha and Alveg, exchanging their workplaces with those of their relatives.

“Uncle Dalen has agreed to come and live here with his family,” said Alicene, enthusiastically. “He likes the Port Subelin region a lot and wants a change of scenery.”

“That’s convenient.” Pelmen tried in vain to muster a smile. A cold fist had closed on his heart.

“We’re leaving in two days,” said Teleg.

“So…so soon?” Pelmen stammered. “Yes, that’s right…it’s in two days the Exchange begins…”

“Hey, don’t pull that face. Whatever you think, we’re not letting go of you. That’s what my father wants to talk to you about.”

“And don’t forget it’s in Alveg one finds the best herbalists,” Alicene added. “It’s better for him.”

“I know,” said Pelmen.

Of course, he knew; they had already talked about it, and ordinarily, he would have shown a lot more enthusiasm. It was just that he he had not expected things to move so quickly. He went toward the door of the house, glancing back when he saw that neither Teleg nor Alicene was following him.

Teleg encouraged him with a nod of the head, and he crossed the threshold.

Master Galn was not in the workshop. A large table dominated the room. It contained flints of various shapes and sizes, which were heaped up between miscellaneous pieces of wood. Pelmen walked through the

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workshop and opened the door to the carpenter’s bedroom.

The room was veiled in shadow, and so dark that Pelmen could scarcely see. The Master Carpenter sat up and drew back the window curtain over his bed. The effort elicited an all-too-familiar coughing fit from Master Galn, which left him out of breath, his respiration ragged. It died down rapidly. The daylight streaming in through the uncovered window revealed a thin hevelen with a waxy complexion, aged before his time.

Master Galn propped himself up; his robust constitution being the only thing that lent him the appearance of still being solid.

Serious illness had a smell about it, and even the cloying odor of Pelmen’s stainflowers could not completely block it from penetrating his three nostrils.

“Greetings, Master Galn.”

“Welcome, Wide-Eyes. And welcome, One-Eye!” Pelmen grimaced. He did not like the nickname Master Galn had foisted on Mils.

“You should try, at least, not to look so sad when you come to see me. You’ll force me to give you a new nickname.”

“Sorry,” said Pelmen, lowering his eyes. “There are days when it’s harder…to look happy.”

“You’re alluding to the Exchange? Should I infer” he coughed “… that you still haven’t talked to your parents about your plans?”

“Not yet,” said Pelmen, stroking Mils. “It’s a delicate subject.”

“Delicate? How many times have you talked to us about it? You haven’t changed your mind, have you? The career of a tanner has its merits too, you know.”

“Oh no, certainly not…!” Pelmen exclaimed. “I haven’t changed my mind. I’m just afraid my father won’t understand. He’s so…”

“Oh, come on! With a bow, you can hit a fly at a hundred paces.

You have everything you need to be a hunter and you…” Another coughing fit, longer and deeper than the last one. “If you want,” Galn continued, more slowly, “I can talk to your father.”

“Thanks, but it’s up to me to plead my own case,” said Pelmen, steeling himself. “If I don’t have the courage to do that, what’s the point of wanting to be a hunter?”

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“That’s the way to talk, lad. I have no doubt you’ll succeed in getting your point across.”

“And then?”

“You’ll come with us, of course. The move is set for two days time, at dawn. Once we’re there, you can sleep in Teleg’s room; he’ll be glad to make space for you. With time, and by practicing hard, you’ll make your dream of becoming a hunter into a reality.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“At your service, Wide-Eyes.” Galn winked, and then put a hand to his throat.

Pelmen took a step backward but changed his mind. He took a deep breath before saying: “Why…why are you doing all this for me?”

“Does there always have to be a reason?”

As Pelmen stared at him silently, Master Galn visibly weakened.

“I don’t like to see a talent like yours going to waste. Keep it to yourself, but I’d have liked…my son to be as talented with a bow as you are.

Leave me now.”

Galn drew the curtain and lay back down in his bed. Pelmen left the room, closing the door without making any noise. It was as if he had a hot ball in the pit of his stomach, but the heat it gave off, relaxing his muscles, was laced with a cold undercurrent.

“So?” said Alicene, on seeing him emerge. “You look like you’ve been turned upside-down. Did what father tell you not please you?”

“No, it was fine,” said Pelmen, busily adjusting a stainflower while doing his best to master the tone of his voice. “I don’t like seeing him in that condition, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” Teleg probed.

“I…I still have a hard time getting my head around what he’s offering me. It’s a change so… It’s so generous of him…”

Teleg came closer to Pelmen, with a pinched smile on his lips.

“He’s always had a soft spot for you, you know.” With that, he slapped Pelmen hard on the back, in what might have been a brotherly gesture, had there not been a slight undercurrent.

Mils’ sharp curved claws sank into his master’s flesh, and Pelmen groaned loudly before detaching the animal from his shoulder as Teleg burst out laughing.

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“That’s not funny,” said Pelmen, massaging his painful shoulder.

“Oh, someone’s in a bad mood even after what my father’s just proposed!”

“That has nothing to do with it. It’s been a hard day, that’s all.”

“Just another one, then.”

“If you say so.” Pelmen looked down.

Teleg spread his arms wide in a theatrical gesture. His eyes sparkled mischievously. “It’s entirely up to you to change all that.”

“And I’ll do it. I promise I’ll do it.”

“Good! That’s what I wanted to hear. In fact, you know the Seer is going to recite his legends this evening. What if we go to listen? It’ll take our minds off things, and perhaps it’ll even give you back your smile—let’s hope so!”

Pelmen’s features relaxed, and he nodded. Impulsively, he turned to Alicene: “Are you…coming with us?”

As she smiled, Pelmen was once again reminded of her beauty, and as he thirstily drank in her splendid blue irises, her long, light brown hair with amber glints and her slender nostrils, he wondered what had prompted him to ask such a bold question?

“Sorry, no,” she replied. “I have to stay here with Father.” She turned to Teleg. “Don’t be too late back,” she said, in a tone that allowed no argument. “You have to help me with the preparations.”

The reddening ball of Astar had begun to sink beneath the horizon. The end of the first month of the renewal was approaching, and Cilamon, the God of Life, had mostly regained his strength, with the result that the thousand scents of new growth were mingled with those of the ancestral trees paying court to the nostrils of the two youths.

“Do you really think your father will get better in Alveg?” Pelmen asked.

“He’ll have a better chance of recovery there than in a remote place like Falsine. Do you know of anyone who’s been cured of lung disease around here?”

Pelmen shook his head.

“Me neither. In Alveg, there’s hope. Anyway, it’s the biggest city in the Canyons.”

They walked alongside a field where a rather large nidepoux was digging in the soil with its snout, in search of acorns. The fleas leaping over the hide of its arched back were almost visible.

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“Maybe that’s the one you tried to ride two springs ago,” Pelmen, observed, jerking his chin towards the animal. “Do you remember?”

“Vaguely.” Teleg’s cheeks reddened as he accelerated his pace.

Pelmen laughed briefly. Under the circumstances, it was not surprising that Teleg’s memory was faltering. *** “Hey, Wide-Eyes, do you see that nidepoux? I’ll bet you a camlorn I can climb up on its back.”

Pelmen sighs. They are between Lake Subelin and a field, where an imposing nidepoux is digging the ground conscientiously.

Pelmen is very familiar with the glint in his friend’s eyes. More than once, it has been the cause of their having to run away as fast as their legs could carry them from some furious farmer, when Teleg wasn’t acting the fool in front of a gaggle of young women. Teleg the reckless, ready to do anything to prove himself…but to prove what, exactly? His virility? His superiority? Pelmen knows that if his friend succeeds, then it will be his turn to climb up and pluck one of the tasty fruits from a camlorn tree, risking a fall or being caught by a gardener, which could be even worse.

He also knows that there is no point in saying no.

“It’s not enough for you to climb up on its back,” he retorts. “This time you’ll have to stay there for at least three bounds.”

“Ha ha! You drive a hard bargain—but that doesn’t scare me,” Teleg brags, puffing out his chest.

Pelmen is convinced that he has nothing to worry about. Most of the time, his companion is rather indiscreet. Positively oafish. Pelmen figures that he will simply spook the beast, and the matter will be settled.

He is soon forced to change his tune. The nidepoux is so interested in the tasty food that it can smell, that it doesn’t notice the young hevelen sneaking up on it from the side. A moment later, Teleg, with the stealth of a sanrkhas, has leapt onto its back and is clinging on to its brown hide with all his strength.

“Phrrt!” snorts the beast, taken by surprise. It has obviously never been trained for mounting and so it whinnies and sets off like an arrow. The image of Teleg’s distraught face, grimacing in terror, is not one that Pelmen would easily forget as with his eyes bulging, his hair streaming behind him and his thin body bounc*Aguerri: War chief

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ing with the rhythm of the gallop, he clings on for dear life. Teleg and his mount make a full lap around the field in record time.

Terrified for his friend, Pelmen waits, watching for an opportunity to get close to the giant rodent. Taking advantage of a moment of fatigue and indecision, he grabs its large pointed ears in order to pull them down over its eyes. The method, learned from breeders, never fails. Once the nidepoux is calmed down, Teleg is able to slide down and drop to the ground is not hard.

Striking a theatrical pose, Teleg bellows “You’ve saved my life,”however, the fear still shows in his eyes as he takes Pelmen’s hands, squeezing them earnestly.

“You’re no longer my friend; you’re my brother, and it’s me who owes you a camlorn.” *** That experience had not made Teleg any less reckless, but afterward, Pelmen got the impression that his friend no longer saw him as a Disinherited.

“You know,” said Teleg, “my father has agreed to let me make you a bed once we’re in Alveg.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He swelled with pride. “It’s the first time I’ll have a chance to work on a job that important.”

“I’ll have to work hard once we’re in Alveg—for that, and for the bow you’ve offered me…”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Teleg insisted. “Consider it as part of my apprenticeship as a carpenter.”

“Even so…”

“Just don’t break your promise to us. I’d be bored silly without you out there.”

“Not a chance!”

The buildings had become more frequent along the path before it curved to the south-west to open into the center of Falsine. A crowd of hevelens were sitting around a roaring, spitting camp-fire in the middle of the main square. Standing a little way off from the flames, which leaned with the wind, a white-haired old man with a chiseled face and a nutcracker chin was brandishing a staff and reciting a story. The moment Teleg and Pelmen sat down, he let his voice die away. Picking up a tankard set close to the fire, he drank a long draught from it,

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before wiping his lips with his forearm and setting it down with a number of others, all empty. He remained silent, as if he didn’t care.

Teleg walked forward and detached a pouch from his belt containing some rather tasty mushrooms. “Accept this, Seer,” he murmured deferentially, bowing.

Zalinen sniffed the offering. Lowering his eyelids as a sign of agreement he tied the pouch to the cord of his robe. A few whispers were heard in the audience. The old man extended his arms and soon, only the murmur of the wind could be heard. Then, the grave and profound sound of his voice was projected upon it, filling the space. In turn quavering and soothing, roaring and heavy, it made the words ring or flow to the rhythm of the legend.

Pelmen knew every detail of the story, but as usual, the voice went straight through him, transporting him to another time.

“It was an epoch which the most ancient only remember by virtue of the tales told by their ancestors, which they obtained from their own ancestors, and so on back through the ages. In that almostforgotten era, we, the people of Aoles, lived on the Windy Steppes, moving from place to place, one journey after another.

“It was a time of wars and troubles, evils and destruction. The infernal hordes of Valshhyk the Immolated, led by his four offspring, were blighting the land with their diseased corruption and fighting terrible battles against us. Coming from the north, our enemies drove us from our ancestral lands and we were no longer safe anywhere.

Exhausted, and desperate to escape those perpetual wars, we sought a haven of peace.

“The day came when we were hemmed into the south by the Emerald Ocean, to the west by vast tracts of marshland, and to the east by the Uncrossable Mountains. Then, the Aguerri* Relven Panjurub, praised be his name, had a vision of an algam circling in the sky. He, alone, seemed to perceive it, so he decided to follow it without telling anyone.

“What bard could sing all the adventures of the Great Discovery? For days on end, the algam led Relven toward the mountains of the east. Relven confronted and challenged wild beasts, marauders and errant demons along the way. Every time the greatest of

23

our Aguerris was about to give up and turn back, certain of having lost sight of it for good, the majestic bird reappeared.

“One morning, they reached the first foothills of a rocky peak. In the past, no one had ever been able to climb the Uncrossable Mountains or even find the slightest fissure in the rock. At the sight of the immeasurable sheer cliffs, discouragement might have left Relven downcast, and sapped the last of his strength, but no! Our Aguerri continued to follow the algam until he reached a heap of rocks, which he climbed, gouging his hands and exhausting what remained of his strength.

“From the top of the slope, Relven saw that a part of the mountain had collapsed, opening for the first time a passage through the Uncrossable Mountains. Beyond it extended the Canyons that now bear his name. For it is said our forefather, Aoles the Wind, took pity upon his children and sent them his own son Shalgam, the God of all the algams, to show them the way to their salvation in this land. And Shalgam had chosen Relven Panjurub, the proudest, strongest, and most valiant of the Aguerris to prove him and test his faith. Relven never faltered, and that is why he was rewarded, and on his return, borne in triumph by all those of his clan.”

Zalinen’s voice fell silent. No one said a word. Then, the Seer sat down on a tree-stump, and the villagers came back to life. Several, including Pelmen, got to their feet in order to go about their business.

“Astar is sending forth his last rays,” he explained to Teleg. “My parents are expecting me for the evening meal.”

Teleg got up in turn and fixed his mauve eyes on his friend’s.

“What will you do if they refuse to let you live your own life?”

Pelmen shrugged his shoulders, but the tone of his voice belied his casual gesture. “We’ll see.”

“May the breath of Aoles be favorable to you, Wide-Eyes.”

“I hope so,” said Pelmen, nodding his head. “You’ll have your answer tomorrow.”

Was it the effect of the Seer’s story? Pelmen felt quite confident—so much so he set off on the return journey with a firm stride. ***

24

“When I say no, I mean no.”

Pelmen looked his father up and down, angrily. Waiting patiently until the end of the meal to begin a conversation, and then trying to present his request in the least abrupt fashion possible, had done no good. He had run into a wall.

“Teleg’s put this idea into your head again, isn’t it?”

It was not really a question; the expression on his father’s face, simultaneously sly and mocking, meant: I know you better than you think.

“I’ve always said it was a mistake for you to hang about with him,” he went on, knowingly. “He’s not one of us. What did I tell you? By sticking you to his heels, he thought he could make you run away…yes, run away from your rightful place. It’s all nonsense, if you want my opinion. By Astar, use what you’ve got between your ears! What will become of you, in Alveg, far away from your family and trained as you are for the trade?”

“I’ve already explained that to you. Teleg’s father has agreed to put me up for a while. For the time I need to become a hunter.” Pelmen tried to hide all trace of irritation from his voice, so as not to give the impression he was on the defensive. “Teleg says that the Recruitment Tournament is open to anyone.”

Zenel sniffed scornfully. “Pooh! You imagine they live there as we do? There’s no better trade than the one we’ve followed, you and me, but not everyone thinks so. Perhaps you think their… their… delicate snouts aren’t offended by your smell? Wanting to be a hunter won’t change that. You don’t learn to hunt by cutting skins with flints, and it takes more than shooting a few arrows after work to learn to use a bow!”

Pelmen felt the blood rising to his head. Limited as his vocabulary was, his father had a knack of choosing hurtful words. He ought to have been able to make some reply, otherwise what was the point of all those hours spent perfecting his arguments? However, at that moment, nothing came to mind.

“You’re our only son, and we’ve always been tanners, father to son, and that’s not going to change today,” Zenel snapped. “Don’t look down!” he added, lifting his son’s chin with his thumb and index finger.

Pelmen pulled away with a curt gesture, his expression black.

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Zenel went on, wagging his index finger, not backing down. “Try to grasp what I’m saying. What I learned from my father and have begun to cram into your skull, is pure amberrock. Thanks to what we know, we have our place in the world. We’re respected, and that’s all that counts.” He paused, before lowering his voice. “Forget these stupid dreams, son. Don’t try to pick the fruits at the top of the tree; take the ones you have right before your eyes. You won’t regret it, you’ll see.”

“You think you know everything, don’t you?” Pelmen’s fists and jaw were clenched. “There are lots of things you don’t know, and you’ll never understand.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned his back and headed out of the door.

Zenel made as if to run after his son.

“Please stay.” The pleading voice was full of sadness, and that, more than anything else, stopped Zenel, making him turn to his wife.

She had stayed in the background during the argument, but he knew her well enough to know that she had her own opinion. They looked at one another for some time, and Zenel could read the anxiety in her opal eyes.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” she murmured. “Don’t push him too far, or nothing good will come of it.”

“I mustn’t show any weakness,” he retorted. “If I could just root these stupid ideas out of his head…”

“Don’t you fear…seeing the past repeat itself ?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

Zenel’s tone, firm and determined, signified the conversation was over. Dryna nevertheless noticed that her husband’s shoulders had slumped slightly.

Pelmen walked around the house again and again without being able to think coherently at first. His father: his father and his street talk, his mockery and his overprotectiveness. He couldn’t stand it any longer.

No, he wouldn’t stand it any longer. Was there anything at all keeping

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him from leaving right now?

His mother had come to stand on the doorstep. She watched him anxiously. A second went by, which seemed to last forever. He couldn’t do this to her—not right now, anyway. Dryna had always been his ally, his friend. During the worst times in his life, she had sustained him.

Without her, he would never have learned the meaning of all those words unknown to Zenel. Every time she had been able to, she had tried to educate him, in spite of her husband’s raised eyebrows; criticizing her for spending too much time with her son. She had gained her knowledge from her first marriage to the former Seer of Durepeaux, whose breath had rejoined Aoles’ a few years before Pelmen was born. Pelmen had often wondered what she saw in his father. Tinmal, the benevolent Goddess who stirred emotions in the hearts of hevelens, concealed many mysteries.

He went to grab a handful of the acorns heaped in a clay pot beside the wall and directed his steps toward Mils’ burrow. Feeding his ptat would have a soothing effect on him. his father didn’t show himself again that evening. Lying on his bed, Pelmen kept going over his bitter thoughts for a long time. He had not been able to find the words to persuade Zenel, even though his desire to be free of the tannery had never been stronger.

He scrunched up his eyelids. Where words had been meaningless, actions would be more appropriate. Yes, a demonstration was in order.

He would take Zenel into the rocky corridor where Master Galn had taught him archery, and where he practiced. His father would be unable to do anything but admit how skilled he was.

But what if his father refused to go with him? Or what if that wasn’t enough? Should he appeal to Master Galn?

Out of the question—Galn was already in enough trouble. Pelmen would get out of this by himself as he had promised to do. If worse came to worse, he would have to appeal to the judgment of the Seer. He hoped it not to come to that, but he was old enough to change his master.

It’s tomorrow or never.

Sighing, he realized that Zenel would not give in easily.

27

Chapter Two STRANGE COMPANY

The first glimmers of Astar were coming through the window of the tiny bedroom and settling on Pelmen’s face. He opened his eyes and got up at once. Not wanting to change his routine, he went out to perform his ablutions.

In the kitchen, where his father was already at breakfast, Pelmen wore an expression of morose resignation. In reality, he was seething inside. He forced himself to absorb his dish of veguer’en cereal mixed with water unhurriedly. He was so used to it that it was insipid. His father enthused about a new consignment of nidepoux hides; Pelmen replied with a word here or there.

Zenel looked at him. “You have to learn to love the work, son.

It’ll be easier then, much easier.”

Pelmen bit his lip to keep from replying. It was too soon to tell his father exactly what was on his mind. The best thing to do was to let Zenel think he had given up, and then give him proof of good will at the tannery to get him into a good mood. In the evening, he would ask his father to go with him. If he approached him in the right way, Zenel would be unable to refuse. That was necessary, because there was so very little time left.

Pelmen was very active that morning. He prepared the tanning baths, brushed the hides, and buckled down to skinning animals with unusual zeal.

He used his hand to wipe his brow, which was streaming with sweat. As usual, Zenel did not seem to notice his renewed effort. From the day he had begun work at the tannery he had not been given any compliment, or even simple encouragement. I probably won’t get one or the other today, either.

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The nidepoux he was attacking was one of the toughest. Pelmen gritted his teeth. He leaned on his flint with all his weight, engraving a profound groove along the spinal column. He grimaced. A scarlet drop pearled in the palm of his hand. Followed by several others, it was about to mingle with the blood of the dead animal. Pelmen seized a rag from a bag provided for that purpose and bandaged the cut on his hand. He resumed work, cutting more carefully. The overseer, Olgen Peaudecuir, didn’t like it when he hurt himself, thinking it slowed him down too much. He could not, however, fault him for wanting to put his heart into the work.

When it was time for their midday meal, the tanners went into the side room which served as a dining area. Zenel sat down to the right of Olgen Peaudecuir, who was enthroned at the head of a long rectangular table, upon which a clay soup-dish was set. Pelmen’s place was the one furthest away from the overseer. The meal unfolded following an unchanging ritual, Master Olgen serving himself first, then Zenel, Jenin, Meslen, Hitaro, Welen and finally Pelmen. The tanners would hang on the Master’s every word, wondering how they might please him or show themselves in a good light.

While eating his soup, Pelmen started thinking about the best way to approach his father at the end of the day. He didn’t want to run the risk of an immediate refusal. The best strategy would doubtless be to beat around the bush a little, by first gaining his father’s interest, but how?

Betting! Zenel liked to bet on nidepoux races.

It seemed like a good idea; he would offer to make a bet with his father. If he lost, Zenel could have his next meal, but if he won, he would be allowed to leave without any more arguments. Pelmen would have to hit one of the wooden stakes in the corridor three times in a row with the thorns shot from his bow in order to win. A hundred paces would be a good distance.

Pelmen looked at his bandaged hand. His injury represented a handicap, but maybe also a trump card. Because of that, Zenel would be convinced his son’s chances were slim. He would be bound to accept.

The afternoon stretched out interminably. Zenel went into the workshop to lend a hand to Olgen, and did not reappear. That annoyed Pelmen.

I hope he’s still here at the end of the day. I need to find him quickly to

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make my demonstration before Astar sets, and also get my bow. It was in his bedroom; he would have no time to lose.

An eternity later, Master Olgen came to announce the end of the day’s work before turning on his heel. Pelmen left his work, changed his dressing and went to the shed. When he came back with his pitcher, Zenel was still not there. He headed toward the exit at a swift pace, only to trip and fall, instinctively protecting the pitcher, which was not broken. He looked back furiously. Meslen, his leg extended, had a mocking smile on his sly face.

Meslen, you filthy insect. Always the first to lick the master’s boots, and never the last to hit below the belt.

If he had had time, Pelmen would have made Meslen lose his taste for practical jokes. Making a big effort to contain his rage, he got back up and turned toward the exit.

Welen’s massive shape loomed in front of the door. Pelmen went pale. Flanked by Meslen and Hitaro, Jemin moved closer.

“What is it?” Pelmen demanded.

The tall knock-kneed hevelen pointed at his bandaged hand.

“You’ve been warned. When you cut yourself, our master isn’t pleased.

When Master Olgen isn’t pleased, the old fogey gets crotchety. You’ve botched the job one too many…ouch!”

Holding his pitcher in front of him, Pelmen had leapt upon him.

Jemin fell backward. With a side step, Pelmen was on Meslen.

His left fist—the good one—crashed into his chin. Under the impact, the thickset tanner stepped back, clutching his jaw. Pelmen uttered a little cry of joy, and took advantage of it to jump through the nearest window—Hitaro’s fingernails only scratched his thigh. He rolled over in the dust and got up and started running. From the corner of his eye, he saw Welen’s heavy arm swinging toward him. Ducking, he avoided it easily.

In the square, a few villagers waiting their turn to draw water from the well watched the spectacle of Pelmen running away from the stout Welen with interest.

Without thinking about where he was going, Pelmen veered to the right. A hundred strides further on, he saw that Welen, out of breath, was falling behind.

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“Hey, lump of nidepoux grease!” he shouted. “What are you waiting for? Come and get...” He broke off and ran again. Jemin had taken up the race. Less speedy, Hitaro and Meslen were lagging behind, but Jemin was gaining on him.

The bastards! What’s got into them today?

Accelerating to a sprint, Pelmen ran out the village like a gust of wind. At the first crossroads, he took the road toward Port Subelin in order to avoid the climb toward Falsine. His lead would not last much longer before Jemin caught up with him. There were only a few yards between them, and Pelmen was running out of breath.

A sailcart appeared behind his pursuers, and Meslen and Hitaro got out of the way to let it pass. The opportunity was too good to waste. Pelmen stopped dead, before quickly turning round and charging Jemin, arms forward. The impact was violent, for his adversary had scarcely had time to slow down. They fell down, in a painful, uncontrolled fashion that took them to the edge of the road.

Pelmen was the quicker to react. Throwing himself himself backward, he delivered a two-footed kick, sending the other tumbling into the bottom of the ditch. With a deafening racket, the cart swept past Pelmen, too rapidly for him to be able to grab hold of it as he had intended.

Against Meslen and Hitaro together, Pelmen knew he would not come out on top. One faint hope still remained; the vehicle had left a cloud of dust in its wake masking him temporarily. Without delay, Pelmen ran across the road, dropping down into the opposite ditch and hiding among the rocks.

What can I do now? he wondered, panting.

His heart was beating too rapidly and he was suffering from several cuts and bruises. He forced himself to breathe deeply to chase away his fears.

They very nearly had me, and they might come at me again at any moment.

What can I do? By Aoles, what can I do?

Finally, his pulse calmed down and he found the answer to his question. The best thing to do was to double back and try to get back to Durepeaux. Such a move seemed absurd, and that was why it would not occur to the tanners to look for him there.

Taking all possible precautions, Pelmen made his way through

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the rocks at the bottom of the ditch.

“Where did they go?” That was Hitaro’s voice.

After a moment’s silence: “There! It’s Jemin! In the ditch…!”

Meslen’s voice was just perceptible, carried away by the wind.

Pelmen quickened his pace, his guts knotted. Had he killed Jemin? Barring some inexplicable misfortune, he did not think so, for the ditch was not very deep at the spot where he had projected the tanner into it.

He did not hear anything more.

His mouth creased into a bitter smile. Whether Jemin survived or not, his rebellion would not be pardoned. As for his father…Pelmen had no doubt he would put all the blame for the brawl on him.

In spite of the thickness of his sandals, Pelmen felt sharp spurs of rock digging into his feet, so he hurriedly climbed up again toward the entrance to the village. Risking a peek, he was relieved when he saw no one.

For the moment, Astar was sinking and the shadows were lengthening. Pelmen had an idea; rejoining the road he ran toward the shadow of an uninhabited mud hut. His hands were damp; a thin layer of ochre dirt remained stuck to his skin. He rubbed them to get rid of it.

Moving from shadow to shadow, he slipped all the way to Master Linen’s inn, which he went around warily. Hidden behind the cart parked near the entrance, he looked around.

His father, standing in front of the tannery, was waiting for something.

Pelmen ducked backward. What could he be waiting for, if not…

He went pale. A vision of Jemin and Welen dragging him to his father’s feet had just appeared to him. His fingernails dug into his palms.

Shit, shit, shit! Nidepoux shit! Galcyne shit!

Zenel’s absence from the workshop that afternoon had been deliberate. Pelmen did not know whether his father had arranged the whole thing from the start, but one thing was certain— with Olgen’s complicity, he had deliberately left the field free for the workmen to inflict a small punishment on him.

You didn’t want to be implicated, did you? Just as well to let the others do the dirty work. Pelmen’s lip trembled. Damned if I know what’s keeping me from...

No, he decided. Whether he elected to fight or just to hurl abuse

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at his father, he would not get the upper hand. He would find himself alone against all of them. Better now to escape from his father’s empire for good; that would be the best revenge. Yes…Zenel had sought to bring him to heel, but he did not know who he was dealing with.

Pelmen unclenched his fists. Now, it was necessary to think about the best way of getting to Alveg, as quietly as possible. Without any support, it would be difficult, but he had to try, no matter what the cost.

“I can hide you, and even get you out of the village, if you want.”

Pelmen jumped, startled. He remained petrified momentarily before daring to move. The murmur came from under the cover of the cart. A corner was lifted up surreptitiously, and inside, the hevelen with the chubby face whom he had caught a glimpse the day before was looking at him questioningly. His eyes were gleaming in the half-light, but the rest of his face was difficult to make out. Perhaps that crease in his mouth and the way in which his nostrils were pulled in indicated a kind of compassion, or maybe sympathy?

The gap in the tarpaulin closed again. Pelmen had to make up his mind.

“Wait… I… agreed!”

“Climb in, but make sure you’re not seen!”

After carefully checking to make sure that no one was looking, Pelmen hoisted himself into the cart. The sharp odor of camlorn beer permeated the air under the cover, adding to his unease. Barrels were lined up in two rows along the sides. The hooded man was sitting near the main mast, as if dozing, or as if he did not want anyone to know he was there. His companion greeted Pelmen with a half-smile and pointed to one of the barrels, which he opened wide.

“No one will think of looking for you in there.”

Pelmen drew nearer. “Thank you,” he stammered. “Truly, thank you. It’s Aoles who sent you.”

“Thank me later. Now climb in.”

Pelmen managed to pass his legs into the gap, before dropping down into the large cask.

“Er…where are you going?” he asked.

“Port Subelin, I’ll put the lid back on; we mustn’t take any risks.”

The hevelen’s double chin was as placid as the rest of his face, but the inflection of his voice was urgent. He matched words with action, and

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darkness closed over Pelmen, who sat down as best he could in the bottom of the barrel. Already, he could hear the mainsail being deployed; the departure was imminent.

A click told him the brake-lever had been released. The cart began to move before completing its first turn to the left…and as the wind swelled its sail, it gained speed. Pelmen dared to breathe again.

They left Durepeaux by the road along which he had escaped from Jemin and his companions. He was trying to calculate how far they had gone when—far too soon—he heard the screech of the brake-lever over the rattle of the wheels as they rolled along the stony track.

Was that because of him? The sickening stench of the tannery now overwhelmed the odor of the camlorn beer.

Meslen, Hitaro, Welen and perhaps Jemin. It can only be them. They’re close by.

Pelmen braced himself. If the cart stopped, he would have to leap out, fight if necessary, and run away again. They wouldn’t get him.

No, they would not get him.

The lever was released, the screeching stopped and they gained speed again. Pelmen breathed and only then felt a stabbing pain in his left hand. He had clenched his fists so tightly the wound he had sustained in the tannery had opened and was bleeding. He extended his fingers, letting relief penetrate every fiber of his being. He would have his revenge. They wouldn’t get him now. His father would wonder where he had gone, for sure.

What a pity! Yes, what a pity not to be there to see his face, when he realizes I’m not coming back! It’s over, Zenel—I’ve finally gotten you out of my life!

He felt tears of joy running down his cheeks.

It was over, the work at the tannery. No more petty daily humiliations; no more stench of dead flesh. He was free to live at long last!

How he wanted to take a bath!

At regular intervals the wind increased its force and the cart accelerated, trembling all over. In those moments, Pelmen knew they had just passed a veguer’en. Ten feet tall and planted in the middle of the road, Aoles’ plants nourished themselves on the wind. In order to do that they possessed two bulbs provided with a large orifice and circled by gilded foliage. The former, orientated to the east, took air in, channeled it and transferred it to the second, directed westwards. The

34

latter expelled the gift received from the direction of the wind, accelerating its flow.

Pelmen thought about his mother. She must have expected that he would go for good one day or another; he had confided in her often.

He did not like leaving her upset though; she didn’t deserve that. He would have to arrange to get a message to her.

Only when I’m settled, he resolved. I don’t want to find Zenel on my back.

He would also miss Mils. The little rodent would have to fend for himself now. The ptat had been such a great comfort to him. The wound of separation would take a long time to heal.

Perhaps that’s the way of things. Mils was part of my old life. Nothing must anchor me to Durepeaux now.

He did not even have the bow given to him by Teleg, which would remain in the trunk in his bedroom, unused; he could not permit himself to go and collect it, any more than he could fetch Mils.

By Astar, who would have believed freedom had such a high price?

Drumming his fingers on the floor, Pelmen began to feel very lonely. Without the slightest source of light, and with all his thoughts in confusion, he could not tell how much time had gone by. The confined space of the barrel was becoming more painful by the minute.

Pelmen strained his ears, but with all the background noise, there was no way he could make out the occasional scraps of conversation between the two hevelens.

Cautiously, he lifted the lid, blinking his eyes to accustom them to the light. What little he could glimpse told him they were going along the shore of Lake Subelin, making progress in the right direction.

The floating tunic of the hevelen to whom he owed his escape showed folds of shiny fat heaped up at the level of the hips, just above his chanvreline trousers. In his right hand, he held the tiller.

A hiss resounded from behind. “Komel!” The voice was hoarse and harsh, as if its owner were speaking with a flint in his throat.

The corpulent person turned, looked at a point behind Pelmen, and then redirected his gaze at him. He gestured imperiously to him and raised his voice to make himself heard. “Hey! Sit down and put the lid back. Come on! If we cross the path of other travelers, your presence in that barrel will seem suspicious!” As Pelmen did not

35

comply immediately, he added: “You don’t want to draw attention to yourself, do you?”

Pretending to agree, Pelmen lowered the lid, but left a thin crack.

“Completely!” Komel ordered. “Astar’s setting and we’ll be making a stop before long.”

The time seemed too long to Pelmen, though, and his legs were beginning to go numb when they finally stopped. The lid above him was removed.

“You can get out,” said Komel.

Pelmen emerged from his hiding place, his limbs stiff. After the obscurity of the barrel, even the twilight seemed bright. While Komel lifted other lids, Pelmen breathed in deeply. Mingling with camlorn beer, the reek of dirt and other bodily odors floated in the air.

Several shaven skulls emerged from the barrels.

Pelmen took a step backward, leaning on a crate in order not to fall over. Only two of the heads, surrounded by a particularly strong odor, were hairy: dirty hirsute manes, yellow teeth, their breath reeking of beer…like those of the other “passengers,” their features testified of a precarious, wearying existence. They also seemed dazed, as if after a long night.

Pelmen turned to one young individual with a more alert expression. “What are you doing here?”

The other studied him, nonplussed, and then a condescending smile formed on his face. “The same thing as you, I suppose. I’m heading for a better life.”

Komel took Pelmen by the arm, leading him outside.

The cart had come to a stop behind a rocky mound not far from the shore of the lake. Some distance away, Pelmen saw the quay of Port Subelin, with its rows of habitations in the background. The last green-tinted gleams of the water contrasted sharply with the ochre cliffs in the distance.

“I’ll explain what’s going on,” said Komel. He paused, sniffed and then pinched his nostrils. “By Hamal, you stink. Hmm…before anything else, you’re going to take a bath. And now that I think about it...” He scanned the little group of ragged and smelly individuals assembled by the cart with a critical eye. “The rest of you are, too.”

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The passengers greeted Komel’s directives with strong cries of protest. Pelmen kept quiet, content to observe the scene, amused.

Komel turned to the hooded hevelen, who advanced toward the protesters and fixed them with his gaze. To Pelmen’s surprise, even the most stubborn quietened down and headed toward the bank, although not without dragging their feet.

Pelmen attempted to discover what the hood concealed. By chance, a ray of light gave him a glimpse of the hevelen’s smooth face. It was impossible to say how old he was. Thin lips, a broad forehead and a straight nose gave him an aristocratic appearance. His disdainful green eyes reinforced his air of arrogant superiority. Although his stature was scarcely impressive in and of itself, the cold mastery which emanated from him, and his calculated way of moving, in particular were not at all reassuring. One could not look at him without feeling ill-at-ease.

Pinching his nose, Pelmen tore himself away from his thoughts in order to plunge into the lukewarm water in his turn. He immersed himself from head to toe, and it was as if he were washing away his past.

It’s over; I’m no longer a tanner.

He happily prolonged the moment until he was one of the last to come out.

Komel was getting impatient. “Come over here. Good. You’re probably wondering why I’m hiding these people in the barrels?”

Pelmen nodded his head.

“Quite simply, I help those who are in need.” Komel smiled briefly. “In any case, I arrived at an opportune moment, didn’t I?” “Why do you do that?”

“Well…sad as it might seem, the teachings of Aoles are hardly practiced anymore. All you have to do is open your nostrils and eyes to observe that. Instead of being as free as the wind and standing proudly on the lands that bore them, most hevelens crawl and do the work which the most powerful assign to them. Others are cast out and become rejects. I’m there; I bring them assistance.”

“To what end?”

“Isn’t it obvious? My aim is to create a free community, one which is happy to respect the divine teachings.”

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“Really? And…where are you taking us?”

A fire smoldered in Komel’s gaze. Pelmen suppressed the urge to recoil.

“There are hidden riches in the world. Riches allowing their possessors to forget the scorn they have had to suffer…to regain their dignity. With just a little effort, they offer themselves to those who have the will to use them. We’re going to a remote place, where we’re sure to find them. For now, I can tell you no more, but look at this.” With a theatrical gesture, Komel brought a translucent object out of the pocket in his tunic.

Bright red, the thing gleamed with an inner golden light which shifted, depending on the angle of observation.

“Fascinating,” Pelmen murmured. “What is it?”

Initially disconcerted, Komel threw his head back and emitted a sonorous burst of laughter. “Poor ignorant Disinherited! It’s amberrock. Amberrock!” He waved the thrilling fragment before Pelmen’s eyes. “Do you understand? With this single fragment, you could buy the inn in Durepeaux and all its servants. There are many others where we’re going. Imagine the possibilities…”

Pelmen had frowned initially upon being called a disinherited, but curiosity got the better of him. He only knew the value of amberrock by reputation. He held out his hand, but Komel moved the object out of range.

“It’s yours…if you agree to accompany us to where we’re going.”

“Can I hold it? Just for a moment?”

Komel darted a penetrating gaze at him before handing the amberrock to Pelmen.

The fragment was light and gave the impression of being easily pliable. For fear of breaking it, Pelmen only exerted a weak pressure on it. No effect. His subsequent efforts, increasingly vigorous, yielded no better results. The object’s strength belied its apparent fragility. Pelmen studied it closely. Its edges revealed themselves to be keener than the sharpest flints. Undoubtedly, it was very valuable. If the people of Durepeaux found out I had this, then they would look at me differently. Yes, they’d finally have to respect me, and I’d become someone…important.

Komel seemed to read his thoughts. “You can keep it. As I said, it’s yours if you join us.”

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The tone of his voice revealed no trace of sarcasm. Pelmen hesitated. Such wealth within arm’s reach…

In the space of a single evening, his world had already been turned upside-down, and now he was being given the opportunity to do it again. The proposal was almost unreal, unimaginable. He tottered and gripped by sudden vertigo, put his free hand to his temple.

What would Master Galn think?

Pelmen made an effort to conjure up an image of the hevelen, with his unhealthy complexion. It was not easy, and he knew that he would only succeed if he were able to distance himself from the emotions assailing him. It seemed to him that the carpenter was looking at him sternly.

Komel cleared his throat.

It was all so easy…too easy. All he had to do was to follow them, Komel had said. But why refuse to reveal their destination? And his sinister-looking hooded companion…it all smelled rotten. Pelmen kept his eyelids lowered momentarily, moistened his lips, and held out the fragment of amberrock to Komel. “Take it back.”

He thought the merchant’s eyes were about to jump out of his head.

“Do you know what you’re refusing? The fortune you’re allowing to escape?” Komel’s voice had risen the final words vibrant with anger.

Pelmen continued to hold out the fragment.

Komel pocketed it with an abrupt gesture. Then he turned toward the setting sun.

When he resumed speaking, all trace of irritation had been wiped away from his features. “I accept your decision, although it seems to me to be incredibly absurd.” His lips stretched in a sickly sweet smile. “Have you noticed? Astar won’t take long to disappear now. We’re going to set up camp a little higher up, in a herdsman’s hut.” He pointed to a hill overlooking the shore. “I invite you to spend the night in our company for the first, and probably the last, time. You’d be wise to accept, thus giving yourself the time to consider my proposition more seriously.”

While he was speaking his silent associate had approached. He inspected Pelmen coldly, punctuating Komel’s words with a curt nod of the head. Pelmen looked at him as well. He judged it more prudent not to annoy them, especially the hevelen whose name he did not know. “I

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suppose you’re right,� he admitted, reluctantly.

They did not have to walk far. On the threshold of the building in question, a hevelen with a shaven head, broad shoulders and a surly expression was holding a herdsman’s crook. Far from being astonished by their appearance he greeted them with a grunt and invited them all to sit down on the uneven ground of the hut, around an impressive dish of beans set on a low table. A cask of beer was pierced and tankards distributed. Soon, tongues loosened, and eyes were shining in the semi-darkness, poorly lit by four crackling torches.

Unused to its pronounced bitterness, Pelmen scarcely touched his camlorn beer. The walls of the room, bare and sinister, contrasted with the cheerfulness of his companions, as they talked noisily about the misery of their past lives and drunkenly toasted their future good luck.

Toward the end of the meal, one of them brought a fragment of amberrock out of his loincloth, and was quickly copied by a second, and then a third, so much so, that the table scintillated with gilded red fires. Everyone was comparing his treasure with those of the others and boasting about its merits, carefully refraining from any exchange.

Komel took advantage of that to go out, in the company of the herdsman.

A short time later, several hevelens decided to get some air. While he initially joined them, Pelmen quickly left them to go their own way.

He watched as Komel and the herdsman melted into the nocturnal shadows. Curious to know what they were discussing so mysteriously, he decided to circle around the building, listening for sounds. Getting a sudden feeling he was being watched, he turned round.

A hooded silhouette was outlined on an overhanging rock in the blue lunar light of Tinmal and Hamal. Motionless, the individual was tracking his every movement.

Pelmen shivered. He looks more like a protodactyl ready to fall on its prey than anything else. Not wishing to find himself alone in the presence of the unnerving stranger for a moment longer than necessary, with no further thought to what Komel was doing, he hurried back to the relative safety of the hut.

The dining room also served as a sleeping area. In one corner, a dozen straw pallets had been set out on the floor, several of which were already taken. Pelmen chose the one furthest away from the

40

entrance door, as if his sole intention was to spend the night as comfortably as possible; far away from the nocturnal chill.

The other hevelens paid no heed to him, either because they did not consider him to be one of them—unlike them, he had refused the amberrock—or for some other reason. Lying down with his eyelids half-closed, Pelmen pretended to doze off while monitoring the comings and goings in the room.

The hooded individual, the herdsman and Komal were the last to reappear. The door, which had no latch, was closed behind them. Only the weather-beaten herdsman lay down on a nearby pallet; Komel and his associate crossed the room in order to go through an opening giving access to the store-room—at least that was what it had been originally, although it had evidently been adapted into a lodging providing a minimal level of comfort.

Pelmen tried to rest his weary bones, but, it was difficult not actually falling asleep, given how tired he was. The rhythmic snoring of the hevelens was both comforting and unsettling, and cursing to himself, Pelmen wondered just why his life had become so turbulent, all of a sudden!

He would have liked to have had more time to think about everything that had changed, but his instinct whispered to him not to trust Komel, and to run away again as soon as he had the opportunity. He would undoubtedly not have reacted like that without the presence of the merchant’s disquieting acolyte, who was exercising—it was beyond doubt now—a mute surveillance over the entire group.

Pelmen waited patiently for the dead of night. When he judged everyone to be asleep, he got to his feet. Unless he was mistaken, there was no movement, but his heart was hammering so forcefully in his chest that it would be a miracle if it did not wake someone up.

He took his sandals in his hand and, stepping over the extended limbs as best he could, he reached the entrance door with a stealthy tread.

He opened it and closed it behind him immediately, wishing neither the sound of the wind nor the intrusion of a brief air current to disturb anyone’s sleep.

Taken in great gulps, the invigorating night air refreshed his lungs.

All right. For the moment, everything’s going well.

The night was calm and clear. Pelmen was determined to reach

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Port Subelin as quickly as possible. Putting on his sandals and opting for what seemed to him to be the shortest route, he headed back down the hill which would take him to the shore of the lake.

The blue-tinted light projected by Tinmal, allied with the pale green luminescence of her rival, the Goddess Hamal, was working in his favor. In order to avoid dead branches, potholes and pebbles, he rarely raised his eyes. Gradually, however, he allowed the serenity of the starry night to wash over him. His anxiety appeared to be on the point of disappearing, like the misty residue of a nightmare on awakening.

The first houses were outlined on the horizon.

“You’ve made an error in refusing that which was so generously granted to you.”

An obscure form had emerged from behind a rock. The silhouette of a face veiled by shadow confronted him. Pelmen had only grasped the meaning of the words after a delay as if they had been pronounced in a foreign language. Already, the intruder had resumed speaking…or rather, allowing a stream of incomprehensible flatulence to escape, dissonant, discordant and corrupt, with his hands extended before him.

Between his fingers a scarlet glimmer was born, which grew into a reddening ball of contained energy. Thus illuminated, his features were clearly visible.

Pelmen gasped, even more frightened by the apparition than the fireball. The face was ruddy and swollen, speckled with abscessed wounds. The fact its possessor was not writhing in agony seemed to have something supernatural about it. On the contrary, his olive-tinted eyes were observing him with their customary glacial assurance.

Pelmen took two steps back, emitting a stifled moan, seeking in vain to get his breath back.

The stranger parted his hands. Liberated, the ball flew toward Pelmen. Its volume gradually shrank on contact with the wind, but its trajectory remained immutable. Pelmen’s legs slackened, and he plunged sideways. A painful burning sensation spread from his groin.

The air blocked until then, finally flowed into his lungs. Pelmen screamed. Maddened by the pain, he came upright again and ran straight ahead. The rock behind which his attacker had hidden was backed up against a granite cliff.

A dead end. He’ll be on me at any moment to finish me off.

Veering toward the imposing obstacle, Pelmen understood in a flash his only option was to scale it. He launched himself toward it.

The enterprise was hazardous, but fear multiplied his strength tenfold.

His fingers became levers, his sandals slipped and detached fragments before finding footholds. He climbed as quickly as he could.

Down below, a further series of guttural outbursts erupted.

Not without scrapes and cuts on his knees, Pelmen reached the top. He looked to the right and the left. A gently-sloping path went down the other side. With a hiss, a fiery serpent landed a few inches from his foot. Pelmen jumped, recovered his balance and blinked in shock.

The rock sizzled and melted at the point of impact. The shaman yanked his incandescent lasso backward. Pelmen ran down the slope.

Terrified, spurred on by pain, he went as fast as his legs could carry him. A plain opened out before him, and in the distance he saw once again the first buildings of the town. He veered toward a fold in the hill a short distance away.

The deformed voice of the shaman was distant now.

Pelmen began to zigzag and he ended up reaching level ground, where he leaned on the bank, with his hand on his side, out of breath.

His wound was still burning like an ardent ember. Brushing it with his finger, he was amazed to find it so limited in dimension and so shallow.

He straightened his shoulders.

No time to lose. I need to go.

Incapable of sprinting any longer, his stride shortening, and with cold sweat running down his spine, Pelmen nevertheless arrived in Port Subelin without incident.

Rows of carts, mostly loaded with furniture and bric-à -brac of every sort were lined up in single file in the dusty streets. Pelmen examined them, bewildered. He had completely forgotten the Exchange period was to begin the next day‌or rather, this morning since dawn was now imminent.

The Exchange, which would mark the departure of Master Galn, Teleg and Alicene for Alveg!

The patter of tiny feet nearby made him jump.

It was only a ptat, hastening in search of a safer refuge.

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I have to do the same. And quickly; it won’t be long before I collapse on the spot.

Pelmen did not have the luxury of being imaginative; a cart would have to suffice. He opted for one of the most voluminous and heavily laden. With fear in his belly he climbed inside, groping his way in order not to knock anything over. His fingers encountered a piece of fabric—a thick tablecloth. He slipped underneath; displacing objects as he went that could only be camlorns, judging by their odor.

Before he collapsed with exhaustion, one last thought occurred to him, detached from all emotion. He looked like the hooded one, but with a very different face—except for the eyes.

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Chapter Three AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE

The heat woke Pelmen up, unless it was the jolting of the cart, or the exhortations of the nidepoux driver up front. He propped himself up on his elbow, laboriously, careful not to start one of the camlorns rolling with his legs or bump his head on the underside of the table.

Grimacing, he set about massaging his neck. He was alive; that was the essential thing.

The burn in his side reminded him that the nightmare of the previous night had been very real, and he almost let a groan escape.

He must not think about that hateful, swollen face—not at the moment, at any rate, unless he wanted to stay underground, like a ptat, for the rest of his life.

Intermittent rays of light filtered into his hiding place. Judging by his aching joints, he must have slept for several hours at least, possibly even half a day. His stomach was crying out with hunger and thirst.

Pelmen remained motionless for a few more moments, his nostrils quivering and his ears pricked. The crystalline voice of a young woman could be heard, and was followed by that of the driver—her father, or perhaps her husband.

Although the exact meaning of the words was unintelligible, Pelmen was certain that he was not the subject of the discussion. Was this how it felt to be a fugitive? he wondered, lifting up the tablecloth slightly to risk a peek. He could not see anything except an accumulation of pots lined with chanvreline drapes. That did not tell him very much. Any corner of the cart might hide a hevelen who he would only see at closer range.

Pelmen stretched his limbs and tried to gather what remained of his courage.

His torso was already outside when he changed his mind and *Aguerri: War chief

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turned round. The camlorns, They’re there, within reach. It would be pure and simple theft, scarcely worthy of the hunter he had so desperately wanted to be before the world around him had gone crazy.

He was dying of hunger and thirst, so, without any further hesitation, he grabbed a ripe fruit of respectable size, put it under his arm and crawled away.

He had to go around stools, step over earthenware pots and climb over crates. The rear of the cart was bathed in a blinding light.

Pelmen jumped down on to the stony road, collected himself and reached the ditch without further delay.

The driver of the vehicle to the rear, whose features he could not make out because of the glare, had seen him, however, he must have thought him inconsequential, for he contented himself with shaking his head to show his disapproval.

Pelmen chose an out-of-the-way spot to sit down. The stone was warm under his thighs. Astar dominated the sky with his unavoidable mass.

The surrounding décor was that of a granite corridor with ochre walls.

Pelmen picked up a stone with a pointed end, wedged his camlorn between his knees and used it to cut through the pink-streaked blue rind. He sucked up the moisture at the heart of the fruit eagerly and feasted upon the pulp. Then it was the skin’s turn, tougher but more nourishing, which he broke into pieces and chewed, while watching the convoy of hevelens and animals marching against the wind, their shoulders hunched.

Aoles always blows westwards, so they’re heading eastwards, toward Alveg, Pelmen deduced. He, too, felt like he had been marching against the wind since the beginning. His attempt to escape the destiny mapped out for him by his father had very nearly proved fatal. I won’t be going back with my tail between my legs any time soon. Anyway, it’s too late to turn back.

Families whose father or eldest son was pulling a cart made up most of the convoy. There were also carts harnessed to nidepoux, and a few herdsmen, small by comparison with their seven-foot tall linguilis. Occasionally, one of the quadrupeds with immaculate fleeces and long prehensile tails strayed from the herd. A herdsman quickly recaptured it, whirling his crook to force the animal back into line.

What if one of those herdsmen was the one from yesterday, sent to search for

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me? Or what if the shaman himself were mingling with the travelers in the convoy?

Frightened by that thought, Pelmen felt his heart begin to race, sub-consciously feeling the wound on his hip, which was already less painful. He examined the travelers more carefully, relieved by the fact that no-one had a veiled face, but aware that the shaman might have changed his clothes in order to be better able to take him by surprise.

He mulled over the situation, before coming to the conclusion that the shaman’s swollen face should be easily recognizable enough.

Having made certain that he was not in any immediate danger, Pelmen eased himself into the flow of migrants. He needed to join Master Galn and his family in Alveg, and avoid any unfortunate encounters along the way. He would ask someone for directions once he got to the city.

The convoy was advancing along the right-hand side of the road, leaving the center free as prudence and custom required. A cart appeared, under full sail, stretching its rigging to breaking-point, traveling in the opposite direction, speeding past with a thunderous din. A veguer’en must have been nearby, or the cart would not have gained such speed. Pelmen admired the ingenuity of the first hevelen—whose name he did not know—to have discovered that the veguer’en needed the strength of the wind to grow rather than water, and to have had the idea of hollowing out the rock of the Canyons at regular intervals in order to plant them.

In order to shelter themselves from the breath of Aoles, some of his traveling companions had positioned themselves behind a rig filled with veguer cereals, which they were pushing, as was customary in such a circumstances. Pelmen lent them a hand.

As the afternoon drew to a close, the caravan stopped. A murmur was heard along its length: “Aguerris!* Aguerris!”

Many hevelens, mostly young, hurried forward. Pelmen, who had never seen one of his people’s leaders, let himself be drawn along by the flow. The crowd was thickest at the head, where the rocky corridor opened out into a vast grainy plain. Several hunters, lances tipped with flint in hand, were holding the spectators back, blocking the end of the gorge.

Hunters….

Wedged between a plump mother and a herdsman, who was

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making use of his crook to try to push him away, Pelmen studied the hunters. Perhaps they were not as tall and noble as he had pictured them—one of them was a good head shorter than he was—but at least everyone respected them. With luck, one day he would join their ranks.

A few hundred paces away, the company of Aguerris was advancing with great ceremony. Standard-bearers were brandishing various brightly-colored banners. Immediately behind them, servants were buckling beneath the burden of game animals slung on poles.

There was also poultry and barrels on carts pulled by nidepoux.

In spite of the heat, the Aguerris, were decked from head to toe, in rich furs, surcoats and sumptuous dresses, and as tradition required, each wore a cape embroidered with an emblem. They were being driven in ostentatious chariots. Pelmen singled out some of them, waving and offering up a brief smile to the crowds that had gathered. Two, who were each holding the reins of a chariot, and were flanked by hunters equipped with axes, lances, slings or bows and well-filled quivers, decided somewhat jealously that the honor of leading the hunt should be theirs.

The company soon turned its back on the spectators in order to head toward a mountain in the background, which Pelmen recognized as belonging to Alveg.

Night was beginning to fall when the caravan was finally allowed to move on. Only a short distance remained to travel before it reached Alveg, but the caravan only reached the outskirts of the city by courtesy of the stars and the two moons. Hamal was in her final quarter and the blue Tinmal was gibbous.

Pelmen went past a gigantic wooden wheel set against a rectangular stone pillar: a mill of Aoles, performing the function of the elevator, creaking and moaning in the wind. Nose in the air and stumbling several times, he arrived at the foot of the colossal rocky edifice around which the city had been built.

He had been here before, to be sure, but he hadn’t really realized the extent to which the architecture defied comprehension: Alveg, the city with a thousand footbridges, all slender, aerial and giving the impression of unshakable solidity; the city with a thousand caverns, where one palace, it was said, had been built by the Gods…

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From a height of about three hundred feet onwards, he could see the rocky foundations emerging from the mountain, which sustained multiple platforms he knew to be linked together by the footbridges.

Translucent in the nocturnal light, columns loomed up on granite pedestals. Around them ran stone stairways, interrupted at intervals by further platforms enthroned at great heights.

Somewhere up there, Master Galn, Teleg and Alicene must be wondering what had become of him. His first impulse was to set out in search of their home, but Pelmen restrained himself, realizing that in the dark, his chances of finding the way were slim.

Fortunately, camp-sites had been set up around various exterior wells by travelers who, like him, had arrived too late to go into the city.

Pelmen was able to slake his thirst and, in spite of his grumbling stomach, and the hardness of the ground, he eventually succeeded in going to sleep between the wheels of a cart. *** The torches in the tunnel crackled. As they burned they spread an aroma of resinian, with the result that Pelmen only had to concentrate on the odor for images of Falsine and its lush hill to flood into his mind. This practice only partly dissipated the sense of oppression that had besieged him since he had gone into the subterranean passage, climbing up to the lowest levels of Alveg.

According to what he had been told, the majority of carpenters were to be found on the third level. Pelmen would have much preferred to make use of one of the mills of Aoles, but he did not have anything to trade for his passage. His troubles were not yet over. In spite of the early hour, there were many others going with him through the gloom, guiding linguilis or nidepoux by the bridle, pulling hard to draw their carts. The majority were silent, as if the mass of the surrounding rock were a great source of anxiety.

There was a bend in the tunnel and then Pelmen went past an opening through which he glimpsed a hevelen unloading his cargo under the watchful gaze of a hunter. The tunnel contained many of these depots hewn out of the rock, large enough to accommodate sev-

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eral nidepoux-drawn carts and their contents. Thanks to these reserves, or caches, Alveg was never at risk of running out of water or food, even during the harshest of winters.

Pelmen wondered with a stab of anxiety whether, if he became a hunter, he might be sent here, into the underworld. He had not considered that aspect of the job, the prospect of which was less than attractive. He promised himself to ask one of the guards about it when he had more time. If working here was an obligatory phase of the profession, perhaps it might be better for him to think about something else.

He arrived at a level which was flooded with light. Pelmen only gave the exit a brief glance before continuing his ascent. Shortly afterward, he overtook some hevelens who were catching their breath, their burdens at their feet. There wasn’t as many of them after that, and as the route became clearer, he was able to quicken his pace.

It was with a sense of relief that he reached the threshold of the second level, his nostrils quivering.

The large wind-blown balcony on which he found himself went around the perimeter of the mountain and gave access to a host of footbridges, columns and platforms. On the platforms, buildings with astonishingly high doors had been constructed, carved into the rock.

The upper and lower levels were also laden with similar structures. The whole thing reminded him of hundreds of giant arms lifting up an even greater number between the plateaus. By what miracle the former were able to support the granitic mass of the latter, Pelmen could not imagine. The foundations must really be solid.

He went along the balcony, which followed the contours of the mountain. If it had not been for the balustrade, the sensation of vertigo would have been overwhelming. He guessed that he was more than six hundred feet above the ground! The hevelens he could distinguish at the very bottom looked like they were the size of knucklebones by comparison, or like the wooden statuettes of different heights he had had the opportunity to admire in Master Galn’s workshop. Those on the first levels looked like magnified specimens.

A little further on, he started to climb the steps of a stairway carved into the side of the cliff. The wind whipped his face, and at times, Pelmen felt almost weightless, full of powerful and wild ener-

50

gy. He easily understood why his ancestors had chosen to settle here, on the heights.

On the third level, he asked twice for directions to the Boisencroix shop before it was pointed out to him. It was recognizable by two majestic blue-barked resinians on its banner, symbols of the Carpenter Emeritus.

As Pelmen approached the shop, he noticed that like all the buildings in Alveg, this one possessed a solidity which was proof against anything, emerging from the rock itself. The sight of the cart parked nearby, half unloaded was more than reassuring.

They’ve already arrived.

He knocked on the door and waited. No response. He knocked more loudly, and after a few moments he heard the sound of voices inside as someone ran toward the door. Teleg flung it open. His forehead was creased with anxiety, and Pelmen was concerned to see distress in his mauve eyes, immediately replaced by astonishment when he was recognized.

“Pelmen!”

“I know,” he said, smiling. “I’m late. There were...hitches, but nothing that could have prevented me from coming to join you, of course. I’m sorry I couldn’t let you know ahead of time.”

“You father told us he was looking for you.”

“Really…?”

“Yes, just before we left.”

“I should have expected that. Did he leave a message for me?”

“He said you had to go back so he could clear up a misunderstanding.”

“Ah!” Pelmen burst out laughing, but his eyes glistened with anger and his nostrils were flared when he recovered his breath. “Zenel really has a sense of humor. Priceless! Believe me that son of a sanrkhas isn’t ready to see me again. Not if I can help it, at any rate.

Er...are you going to let me in?”

Teleg’s features became distraught.

“What’s the matter?” asked Pelmen.

To his amazement, his friend shook his head. “Not at the moment.”

“Why? By Aoles, why? You aren’t going to leave me at the door, though? You were going to make me a bed, remember?” Pelmen

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looked to the right and left, uncomprehendingly. “If this is a joke…”

“It’s not a joke,” Teleg interjected. “Listen, old chap, I…it’s my father. He’s had another attack. This one’s serious.”

For the first time, Pelmen noticed that Teleg’s eyes were bloodshot.

“He’s coughing up blood. We sent for a herbalist, who stayed all night. It doesn’t look as if he’s going to recover.”

Pelmen felt his own blood drain away from his face. “How is that possible? Is he really as ill as that?”

Teleg nodded his head.

“It shouldn’t have happened so quickly. Never! Do you think the journey…it’s the journey that weakened him isn’t it? Oh, Teleg, I…I don’t know what to say. I…I’d just like…can I see him? Just for a moment?”

“He’s too weak. Even Alicene and I aren’t allowed to see him right now. Come back…later, perhaps. Later.”

Teleg closed the door again abruptly.

Pelmen found himself staring incredulously at the wooden panel, realizing that this was not some schoolboy prank. Slowly, he turned round; his legs giving way as he suddenly found himself sitting down against the door. Teleg was supposed to be his friend. His friend—and he had shut the door in his face, at the very moment when Galn had most need of him.

It was Teleg who had insisted he join the family. It was Master Galn who had arranged everything for him to be able to live with them. All his plans were threatened with ruin, and there was nothing he could do! The hevelen who understood him best, the one to whom he felt closest, was on the point of returning his breath to Aoles, and he was powerless.

Pelmen sniffed. Walk, I must get up and walk. I’ll go mad if I stay still.

He started striding along a footbridge, without paying any attention to where his steps were leading him.

He wandered like that for an indeterminate length of time, along access-routes which hundreds of feet long felt more like perches; linked to one another and suspended over empty space. He leaned over several times and then, seized by vertigo, threw himself backward.

He gradually brought a little order back to his chaotic thoughts.

What would become of Alicene and Teleg if…? Would Teleg be able to take

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on all of his father’s activities, become a master craftsman and develop a clientele when he had only just moved here?

The uncertainties weighing upon his friend, he realized, were no less overwhelming than his own. If the worst happened, Teleg would be forced to spend all his time just providing for Alicene and himself.

Pelmen would not be at all surprised if his friend were unable to feed an extra mouth.

He should, therefore, take responsibility for himself and get himself out of trouble. What can I do? I don’t know anyone here. No one except…

No. Not him. He would not go to ask for help from Zenel’s brother.

Pelmen had only met his uncle Xuven twice in his entire life.

The last time was years ago, when he had come to Alveg with his parents. So far as he could remember, Xuven was a solitary recluse who hardly said a word.

So what? He thought. He isn’t Zenel. It’s obvious they didn’t see eye to eye, or they’d have seen each other more frequently.

Wrinkling his nostrils, Pelmen figured that anything was better than going back to Durepeaux and having to admit to his father that he had been right, that there was no place for him in Alveg.

He looked around. The place was unfamiliar to him, but the massif, girdled by its balcony was an ideal reference point. He went back that way, down a stairway open to the sky in order to reach the second level, where Xuven lived. Only partly trusting his memory, he asked for directions several times, until a middle-aged woman wearing a brightlycolored checkered ribbon as a head-dress told him the way, all the while shooting a suspicious sidelong glance at him.

As he neared his uncle’s home, the location began to seem vaguely familiar—which only added to the anxiety knotting his gut.

How would his uncle, a hevelen who was practically unknown to him, and a master craftsman—so far as he knew he owned his shop— welcome a Disinherited like him? Pelmen did not have the slightest idea.

As he reached a building at the foot of a column, he knew that he had arrived. The banner flapping in the wind over the frontispiece showed a cart pulled by a nidepoux, the emblem of the Tireless Voyager, one of the Aguerris.

Pelmen lowered his eyes, to see a silhouette emerging from the

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past. Xuven’s hair, tied back by means of a cord, side-whiskers and gray-flecked beard had whitened since the last time he had seen him.

His triple nostrils sniffed him carefully, as if his uncle were capable of disentangling all of his adventures with the aid of his sense of smell.

There was shrewdness in the large gray-circled irises, but also the mistrust of one who has lived alone for a long time.

Uncle and nephew did not say a word for some time; then Xuven’s deep voice broke the silence.

“You’ve come alone, I see.”

“Yes,” Pelmen replied, his throat taut. He could smell various familiar odors upon his uncle, and other unfamiliar ones, which probably came from the merchandise found in his shop.

“Don’t tell me: you’ve come all the way from Durepeaux on foot.”

“Something like that,” said Pelmen, bowing his head.

“And all that effort simply to make a courtesy visit to your old uncle, I imagine,” said Xuven, in a peevish tone, without appearing to notice the anguished expression on his nephew’s face. “Well, come in.”

Pelmen hesitated only a moment before following him. Inside the shop, sumptuous fabrics were fixed to the walls, and carved boxes were lined up alongside slender ivory statuettes placed on sanrkhas’ skins. Placed prominently on the counter, items of jewelry made of precious stones mounted on seashells competed in exotic beauty.

There were all sorts of singular objects, whose purpose Pelmen did not always understand. His own presence seemed to him to be incongruous in the midst of all that finery; to the extent he joined his uncle in the adjacent room without delay.

Xuven rooted around in the larder, eventually returning with a piece of dried meat and a biscuit made of beans. “You look hungry to me. Eat this, and we’ll talk afterward.”

“Thanks. I think I could eat a nidepoux!”

Pelmen cleaned his plate and shared a pitcher of beer with Xuven. The latter furrowing his bushy brows as he looked at the bowl his nephew had emptied so swiftly. Nevertheless, he filled it again.

While feeding himself, Pelmen thought about Master Galn. From what Teleg had told him, the herbalist who had been summoned had been unable to make him better. Did that signify all hope was lost? And

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if it were still possible at this stage, how could he be helped? He made the journey here in order to get better, but the opposite has happened. It would be utterly absurd if I were never to see him again: too absurd.

Xuven waited until Pelmen had finished before questioning him.

“What brings you here? If you’d come for the festivities of the renewal and the Exchange, your parents would have come with you, wouldn’t they?”

Pelmen nodded. It was a decisive moment, the one when he would have to explain himself convincingly. His instinct told him to stick to the facts, and he decided to trust it.

“I’ve run away,” he said, frankly, giving a brief account of the beating his colleagues at the tannery had tried to give him, concealing neither the role played by his father nor the revolt his schemes had produced. On the other hand, he skipped over the episode of Komel, the Disinherited in the cart and the shaman. No need to complicate things further; they’re complicated enough already.

When his story was finished, Pelmen held his breath. His future right now depended on the hevelen facing him, the uncle that he hardly knew.

Xuven studied him impassively. “So, you stood up to four workmen, did you?”

“I barely managed to get away from them.”

“Interesting, and if I’ve understood rightly, you don’t want to work in your father’s tannery anymore?”

“I’m not made for that. I’m sixteen years old, so I’ve paid my debt to my family. My destiny belongs to me.”

“Bold words. How do you intend to fulfill your needs?”

“By becoming a hunter. I…I’m not bad with a bow. I had to leave mine in Durepeaux, but it was no longer the right size for me anyway.

I’ll just have to get another before the next Recruitment tournament.”

“Just have to get one…fine optimism. At any rate, the tournament isn’t due to take place for another two months. What are you going to do in the meantime? Where are you going to live?”

“Well, I…I hoped…I told myself that perhaps you might need an apprentice,” Pelmen improvised.

Xuven, who had gone to a window, lowered his head without showing any surprise and lost himself in the contemplation of the landscape.

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Pelmen watched him apprehensively. His uncle didn’t move a muscle; one might have thought he had mutated into an inert extension of the window-sill.

The silence went on and on. Pelmen remained suspended, waiting anxiously for what Xuven had to say, his fingers permanently interlocked.

“An old hevelen once helped me, in similar circumstances.”

Pelmen leaned forward. Xuven’s voice was low, as if he were talking to himself. Turning, his uncle looked him in the eye. “You are my nephew. I am your uncle; we’re family—but let’s be clear; I’m not going to make you my apprentice just so you can leave me after two months.

You can be a hunter, but you’ll be in my service. That means as long as you’re with me, you’ll have to do as I say.”

Pelmen had scarcely registered the final words.

You can be a hunter! You can be a hunter!

The words danced in his head, and he could easily have let his legs follow their rhythm. His eyes shining, he asked: “So…I can take part in the Recruitment tournament?”

“I’m counting on it.”

“I don’t know how…how to thank you.”

“It’s quite simple, you can help me by helping me in the shop, and by escorting me when I go abroad, from city to city.”

“It will be an honor…a pleasure, even. But if I…if I succeed in being accepted, I don’t know whether I’d be allowed to work for you.”

Xuven gestured vaguely with his hand. “That’s not a problem.

Merchants like me always need at least one guard to protect their goods.”

“True—I hadn’t thought of that. Excellent! It’s agreed, then? It’s really settled? You’ll take me into your service?”

“Ask that once more and I might change my mind.”

“Oh? It’s just…” Pelmen shook his head. In his brief life, he had been a tanner for so long…the idea of earning a living by handling a bow had been a great hope, but most of all a dream. And suddenly, in the space of only a few days, it had become so real! Was that what life was all about, an outstretched hand, pulling you out of the mud and forcing you to see the world in a different light?

The corners of Xuven’s lips had turned up in an imperceptible smile. He took Pelmen up to the spare room on the first floor, a spa-

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cious room with a simple skylight, half-empty, in which a few old trunks and barrels were gathering dust. Pointing to one of the trunks, he said: “You’ll find straw in there, enough to make a suitable pallet.

But first, you’ll need to tidy up.” He handed him a broom. “Come back down when you’ve finished.”

Having completed his task, with loud sneezes and fits of coughing, Pelmen had to wash himself in a basin of cold water. He was astonished, after having dried himself, to see his uncle handing him a pair of leather trousers and a chanvreline shirt.

“They should fit you,” Xuven explained, as if the present were a mere trifle. “My nephew should be decently dressed on this day of celebration. Anyway, you can’t keep those clothes. I wouldn’t want my customers turning on their heel when they see them. And we’ll let your hair grow back.”

Pelmen was speechless. He hurried to get dressed, but only ever having worn a loincloth, he felt ill at ease under his uncle’s appraising gaze.

He would get used to it. He would get used to his new clothes.

“Have you any jobs you want me to do, Uncle?”

“Not today. I suggest you familiarize yourself with the area; that will make things easier. Visit Alveg and take advantage of the celebrations; you can start work tomorrow.”

“Thank you. Er…I hesitate to ask, for fear of abusing your generosity, but…”

“What?”

“Do you know a herbalist? A very good herbalist? I have a friend who lives here in Alveg and…his father is very ill. I owe both of them a great deal.”

“There’s Bugen Herberas. If he can’t do anything, there’s no point in looking elsewhere. I’ll tell you where to find him…”

Following Xuven’s directions, Pelmen went out on to the circular balcony once again. He crossed several footbridges and climbed the spiral staircase around a column.

Bugen Herberas was not at home. According to his apprentice, who gave Pelmen a description of him, he was watching the festivities.

Pelmen stressed the urgency of the situation, and the novice told him where his master had said he was going.

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As he made his way back down to the foot of the mountain, Pelmen joined many hevelens of all ages and conditions who were going in the same direction. They all wore relaxed, even jovial expressions; everyone seemed to be rejoicing in advance. Pelmen remembered his training sessions with Teleg and Master Galn, and the radiant smile on his mentor’s chiseled face. “You see, Teleg; at least Pelmen has grasped the technique!”

The steady stream of people rushed into a gully, and with everyone squashed together, it soon became difficult to breathe. The gully divided into two branches one of which, sinuous, but broad was strewn with rocky outcroppings and veguer’en growing abnormally close to one another. The wind was racing between the walls and roaring, but the plants scarcely bent. Stone stairways had been carved into either side of the gorge, and numerous spectators had already taken their places on the cliffs, which looked as if they had been designed to accommodate the crowd.

The apprentice had mentioned a race of Wings of Aoles, and that Bugen Herberas, who had a scar on his face and was dressed in green, would be found not far from the Aguerris’ platform. As Pelmen got closer to the platform in question, he noticed that the spectators were dressed in more luxurious garments; some of them were even wearing jewelry.

Although he knew that it was rude to do so, unused to such opulence, Pelmen found himself staring in awe. The Aguerris were a stunning looking bunch and were spread-out across the entire breadth of the dead-end closing off the corridor. Across from them was an unusual rocky spire, which looked like it had been perforated in the middle.

That ring, hollowed out by some force of nature, was facing a crest, on which two veguer’en grew. From the way the assembly was laid out, it was obvious that passing through the ring would decide the victor.

Pelmen studied the crowd carefully. His gaze settled on a silhouette answering the herbalist’s description.

A hunter with broad shoulders, leaning on an imposing flint ax was guarding the entrance to that part of the arena. Pelmen went up to him and tried to persuade him to let him through. While explaining it was vital for “his master” to receive emergency care, he wondered

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whether his shaven head might compromise his chances. Then a mighty clamor echoed among the spectators. Pelmen followed the direction of the hunter’s gaze. Large sails had just appeared on a plateau overhanging the entrance to the canyon.

“If you cause any trouble, I’ll come to take care of you personally,” said the guard, giving him a sign to go on.

Uttering a sigh of relief, Pelmen hastily climbed up and sat down beside a person with a weathered face marked with a large scar, who judging by his thunderous expression was annoyed by the intrusion An ivory statuette was suspended around his neck and he had a satchel at his side, which must, if Pelmen was not mistaken, contain medicinal herbs.

“Are you Master Bugen Herberas?” he asked.

The only response he obtained was a vague grunt.

“My…uncle is gravely ill and in need of your services…as soon as possible.”

The hevelen glared at him vindictively. “How dare you disturb me at a time like this, by Valshhyk?”

“When the breath of someone dear to me is threatened by extinction, I’m prepared to do anything. I beg you, you’re my last hope!

All cures have failed thus far. It is said there’s no better herbalist than you. My uncle is a carpenter and you can select the object of your choice from his shop.”

Although he felt uncomfortable in offering the bargain, Pelmen guessed that it was not too bold.

Bugen’s expression seemed to soften as he considered what Pelmen had said, however, the herbalist continued to look fixedly at the entrance of the gorge. Out there on the crest, fifteen competitors were lined up.

The Wings, of various colors, were made up of two sails, one of which formed a semicircular tail. Soon, the Riders of the Wind launched forth, beginning to glide, now becoming one with their machines.

“This is my decision,” Bugen said, finally. “If—and I say if—you bring me luck and my favorite wins, I’ll agree to help you.”

Feeling sick to the core, Pelmen wrinkled his nostrils. It was cruel of the herbalist to toy with him, but he was only half-surprised by it.

The majority of hevelens had gambling in their blood; nothing excited them more than betting. All was fair in winning the favor of Aoles, the

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God of the Wind, Fortune and Destiny.

“Which is your favorite?” he asked.

The messenger of Tchulen Poindivoire—the Indomitable Hunter, if you prefer: the one flying the red Wing with white markings.”

At that moment, the ambient light weakened. Pelmen thought a simple cloud was the cause, but several spectators were looking up into the sky. Up above, Astar was no longer perfectly circular. Over a portion of his circumference, a black crescent had appeared, and was growing, devouring the light.

The customary sentiment of respectful dread gripped Pelmen.

The moment of the encounter between the Goddess Tinmal and the Sun-God, the creator of all things, had arrived. The Seers had calculated the frequency of such events, but the precise moment remained a mystery to the last. The audience was abuzz with rumors. If Tinmal had chosen such a moment to unite with Astar, she was surely consecrating the race with her favor.

Gradually, a reverent silence established itself. The dark circle of the Moon-Goddess was superimposed on Astar, limiting his light to an iridescent ring. No encounter was ever the same as the one before it; sometimes, Tinmal scarcely brushed by the immense molten ball; at other times, like now, she surrendered herself entirely to the God. It seemed to Pelmen that it had suddenly become a little cooler, although Astar continued to dispense his rays around his chosen one.

A few moments went by like that, and then, slowly, the moon drew away before disappearing. When conversation resumed, it was initially in hushed tones, as if the spectators were awakening from a dream.

“The Aguerris have given the signal,” Bugen Herberas announced. “The race is about to begin.”

Together, the Wings launched forth and began their descent.

Propelled by the energy of the veguer’en, they wandered all over the place, with the exception of those who chose the shortest route. Two of them collided and crashed to the ground, their riders tumbling for several yards. One of them tried painfully to get up while the other lay there, inert.

The red Wing of the Indomitable Hunter, easy to spot, had not been involved in the accident.

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There was an astonishing display of intercrossing sails, the most skillful competitors trusting their instincts to lean sideways at the last moment, skimming the contours of the rocks in their flight. Those who gave themselves too large a margin of safety lost precious time, and were left behind. The red Wing was one of the bolder competitors; it swerved between the obstacles with precision. Its rider did not hesitate to brush the veguer’en in order to seize the best part of their breath.

Several competitors crashed into the rocks. On the cliffs, the hevelens were shouting, booing, falling to their knees with their heads in their hands or bounding with fervor. Bugen Herberas had got to his feet, his eyes riveted on the survivors. Pelmen did the same.

The red Wing was still behind the two leaders. A yellow one on which two axes intercrossed were drawn, and a white one decorated with turquoise motifs had benefited from the most favorable air currents. It became obvious one of the two was bound to win when they surged over a block of granite at top speed, their riders masterfully positioning their sails behind the last few veguer’en—those which would propel them toward the stone ring, and victory.

The crowd held its breath.

The two riders had the same idea. Each one tried to cut off his adversary’s path. A dull sound resonated: wooden frameworks colliding. The Wings, their extremities still directed skyward, were deflected from the ideal trajectory.

Although the white accepted his fate, avoiding the ring and executing a graceful curve before righting himself, the yellow rider struggled with all his might to pass through, no matter what the cost, swinging his body in order to reorient it. He only succeeded in crashing onto the rim of the ring. A dazed silence accompanied his chaotic forty foot fall.

Immediately afterward, the cheers rose again, and then exploded when the scarlet Wing went through the ring, victorious. Hevelens ran forward to help the wounded and inanimate competitors lying on the ground. A huge crowd gathered around the wing of the Indomitable Hunter to congratulate its rider.

Pelmen sighed with relief although his anxieties were far from being alleviated. Please, let it not be too late, he prayed. If it is, all this was for nothing.

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Abandoning all his dignity, Bugen Herberas began to dance a jig, raising his arms to the sky. He leaned toward one of his neighbors, who wore an exceedingly long face, and pocketed his stake, a glittering bracelet. Some of the spectators set out to leave the canyon, but most remained seated.

Bugen, in a much better mood, agreed to accompany Pelmen without further delay. On the way, they crossed the path of a column of chariots pulled by nidepoux—the races had not yet finished.

They reached the nearest mill of Aoles, for which Bugen casually paid the fare. Pelmen, for whom the experience was new, considered the three-hundred foot high wheel respectfully. During his previous visit, he had been told about the existence of a conduit hollowed out diagonally under each of the mills. “Veguer’en grow at the bottom, which receive the gift of Aoles through a gently-sloping tunnel ending in the open air,” a passer-by had said.

Pelmen climbed into the basket in which Bugen had already taken his place and waited for the moorings to be cast off. Down below, a hevelen with a muscular back opened the trap-door of the conduit, while keeping hold of it. Then the sails linked to the baskets inflated, the wooden framework groaned, and the mill began to rotate. When they passed above the axis of the opening, Pelmen experienced, for the second time that day, the intoxicating sensation of being carried by an invisible hand.

After several successive halts of the wheel, they disembarked in their turn on an immense platform upon which sat various artisans’ shops, and the stalls of a permanent market.

Pelmen hesitated several times during the rest of the journey, provoking recriminations on Bugen’s part, but he finally spotted the banner he had seen before. This time, Alicene opened the door.

Her hair was untidy and her face, paler than usual, reflected her surprise. She looked Pelmen up and down, and then the person accompanying him.

“I’ve brought Bugen Herberas,” said Pelmen, blushing, “a herbalist of great renown.” So saying, he studied the young hevelen. So far as he could judge, she was not entirely distraught, which meant that perhaps all was not lost. Her reaction confirmed this first impression because she bowed to Bugen.

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Teleg came running in his turn, his brow furrowed. Pelmen went to meet him.

“How is your father?” he asked.

“He’s resting,” Teleg replied. He grimaced. “The herbalist said he can do nothing more for him.”

“Oh, Teleg…excuse me for asking, but do you know this herbalist…well?”

“What do you think? Did we have time to make a choice, when we arrived?”

“Right—that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The one with me is named Bugen Herberas. According to my uncle, he’s the best herbalist in Alveg. The best, you hear? In exchange for his service, I’ve promised him he can take the object of his choice from your father’s workshop.”

“I don’t know…he’s already had so many remedies. I’m wondering whether we should not leave him in peace.”

Pelmen grabbed his friend by the shoulders and shook him. “Teleg!

Don’t say that! We must fight as long as there’s breath in him, you understand? If not, you’ll be the first to regret not having tried everything.”

“He’s right,” said Alicene.

Eyelids lowered, Teleg said nothing. Then he raised his head.

“All right. I haven’t slept for two nights and I’m not thinking clearly. We need to go see him.”

Bugen demanded to be left alone while he examined the patient.

Pelmen had begun to make a circuit of the workshop with long impatient strides when his eyes met Alicene’s. He read so much grief in them that he headed toward her and squeezed her hand, which was as moist as his own.

The atmosphere grew heavier and more oppressive with every passing second. Large jars, casks and boxes were heaped up in a disorderly manner, not far from wooden planks and worn stone tools.

Alicene picked up a rag and started dusting. Her gestures were repetitive and she went over the same spot several times. Teleg went to his sister and suggested that she sit down. He put his arm around her shoulder, awkwardly, and they remained like that, frail twigs, interlaced. There was nothing to do, but wait and direct their thoughts toward Aoles, the father of the hevelens. Pelmen had forced himself

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to be still and stared intently at the ceiling as if the answers to all his questions might be found there.

Finally, Bugen emerged from the bedroom, his expression grave.

He beckoned to them to follow him outside.

“The lung disease is extensive,” he declared, “and that’s a fact.

However, I refuse to believe all hope is lost. I’ll send you my apprentice, with potions of my own making, one yellow and one green. The yellow one will strengthen him and put him back on his feet temporarily. He’ll need to take it twice a day, with meals. The other will permit him to bear the more serious episodes without too much suffering.”

“Do you think he’ll recover?” asked Teleg.

“He’ll be better in a few days, but then there’ll be a risk of relapse. If he survives that, he’ll be safe.”

Alicene had straightened her shoulders. Her eyes gleamed a little brighter.

Bugen chose a delicately sculpted ocarina by way of payment. He took his leave with a nod of the head. Teleg murmured a few words to his sister, who headed toward Master Galn’s bedroom.

Pelmen cleared his throat. “May I…see your father?”

“Of course,” Teleg preceded his friend into the room, from which a sickly odor emanated.

In the dim light, it was difficult to make out Galn’s features. As his eyes adjusted, Pelmen became conscious of his mentor’s condition, and his throat tightened. Galn’s eyes, half-closed, were gummed-up with mucus, his overly long gray hair fell in an untidy mess over his shoulders, and his wrinkles were even deeper than the last time Pelmen had seen him.

Pelmen realized that Alicene was looking at him. He tried to keep his expression calm, but had a great deal of difficulty in doing so.

“He- hello, lad.” The voice was little more than a murmur, a raucous breath. “Al…ways so sad, Wide…Eyes.”

Pelmen was overcome by a sudden urge to run as far away as he could.

Instead, he stammered a few awkward words. “Are…are you suffering much?”

“Not…bad. You’re still practicing the bow?”

“Er…yes, yes, of course.”

Master Galn blinked, as if it required an effort to maintain his attention.

“We’d better let him rest for a while,” said Alicene.

Pelmen saluted Master Galn with a forced smile, and then all three of them beat a retreat to the workshop.

“I wish I could stay here day and night,” said Pelmen softly.

“I’m…sorry for having treated you the way I did,” said Teleg.

“Forget it. That’s already ancient history, believe me.”

“You can stay here, of course. For as long as you want.”

“Thanks, but…actually, my uncle Xuven has agreed to take me in.

Part of me would like nothing better than to stay here, but he’s been so generous in agreeing to take me into his service, you see. I have to become his apprentice; I don’t want to break my word to him.”

“I see,” said Teleg, appearing to notice Pelmen’s attire for the first time. “By the way, what’s become of One-Eye?” Pelmen wrinkled his nose. “I had to leave him behind—along with the bow you gave me. I had no choice.” Pelmen gave him a brief account of his flight from Durepeaux, again avoiding any mention of the help he had received. There was something embarrassing about the memory of that episode; to have been hiding out with thugs and criminals in a barrel, in order to escape his father was hardly something to be proud of. As for the attempt on his life, Pelmen was no longer even certain he believed it, so much did the shaman seem to be something out of the tales the Seers told.

“Your father really is a…I shouldn’t say,” said Teleg. “I’m sorry, especially about your ptat. I’m even more annoyed with myself for having received you so badly.”

“Don’t blame yourself for that. I think I understand what happened.

You weren’t yourself.”

“This came on us at such a bad time…”

“I know.”

“Fortunately, friends are there to lighten the burden,” said Alicene.

The brother and sister looked at him, and Pelmen did his best to give a hint of a smile.

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Chapter Four A BOW FOR PELMEN

During the first few days after settling in Alveg, Pelmen’s activities in the shop provided him with a distraction, which he did his best to cling to. Xuven had asked him to stay in the background to begin with and observe how negotiations were carried out. That way, Pelmen learned the value of the various fabrics, carpets, cushions, items of jewelry, perfumes, ointments, tools and objects of every sort. Cleaning and rearranging the merchandise according to his uncle’s instructions were not chores, once he had understood the necessity. For the first time, he felt useful. And above all, he could think about something other than Master Galn, Mils and Dryna, all of whom he missed terribly.

On the third day after his arrival, Pelmen wondered more than ever whether his mentor had survived his illness. The afternoon was drawing to a close and he was standing on the threshold of the shop, contemplating the platforms higher up. The day before, for the hundredth time, he had rejected the idea of going to see Alicene and Teleg.

He did not want to impose or seem as though he was being pushy—at least, that was what he told himself. The excuse was nidepoux-shit, of course. It had more to do with the wan and jaundiced face of the master craftsman that surged forth every time he thought about him; that was not the Galn he wanted to see again. Above all, he was afraid of having to face the worst.

Pelmen was relieved to see Teleg approaching, a huge grin lighting up his face.

“He’s getting better?” Pelmen asked his heart suddenly in his throat.

“Much better!” exclaimed Teleg. “Your herbalist’s remedy had more effect than we could have hoped. His appetite has returned and he is getting out of bed more often. That’s not all—now he wants to

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get back on his normal schedule! Alicene and I are having a lot of trouble slowing him down!”

“Excellent!”

“He’s asked to see you, of course.”

Such a request was no trouble, for Xuven had given him the evening off. Pelmen told his uncle that he was going out before setting off with Teleg.

“It’s fantastic,” Pelmen said, as they walked. “I’ll admit now that I was really afraid.”

“You’re not the only one. Alicene and I don’t know what would have become of us, without him.”

Master Galn had, in fact, recovered his strength. His gestures were slow and marked with weariness, but his complexion was less jaundiced and he could stand up. Pelmen felt the accumulated tension of recent days ebbing away in relaxing waves. He smiled at his mentor.

“One would think I had returned from a long journey,” said Master Galn. “I owe you a considerable debt of gratitude, from what Teleg tells me.”

“Oh, I was just really lucky,” said Pelmen.

“On the contrary, Wide-Eyes, you showed particular inspiration—as you did when you listened to Aoles while drawing the bow.”

Pelmen’s smile was only slightly forced.

“Teleg tells me that your bow is no longer in your possession?” queried Master Galn.

“That’s true, unfortunately.”

“But in spite of everything, you still want to train for the Recruitment tournament?”

Pelmen nodded.

“I’ll make you one—it’s the least I can do.”

“I couldn’t ask for anything better,” said Pelmen, unable to mask his delight.

“The only problem is that, given the state I’m in, it won’t be ready before the beginning of the tournament. Hmmm…in the meantime, you can take mine.”

Pelmen’s nostrils dilated. “You want…to lend me…your bow?”

“Ah! There’s the Wide-Eyes I know! You haven’t been yourself

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recently.” He winked.

Pelmen tried to offer lavish thanks, but Master Galn interrupted him. “It’s necessary to give you every chance,” he said, becoming serious again. “Besides which, don’t think you’ll get off so easily—I intend to take an active part in your training.”

Alicene, who had been busy arranging garments in a trunk, turned to her father. “Not in the next few days you won’t. You’re still much too weak.”

Master Galn pulled a face. “You see how it is?” he said to Pelmen.

“I’m no longer master in my own house.”

“It’s necessary to be reasonable,” Pelmen said, in a conciliatory tone.

“If you’re on her side, too, then…all right. Come with me.”

Master Galn took Pelmen to his room, and pointed at a long box decorated with blue motifs, which had seen better days. Pelmen had no need to open it to know what it contained: the large bow in slender gilded wood, renowned for its elasticity and strength.

“I’m not worthy,” he murmured.

“Nonsense! Apart from me, you’re one of the people who can best make use of it. You’ll need time, of course, and perhaps some advice.”

“When you’re better, that goes without saying.”

“Hmph! I feel fine. Go on, take it.”

Pelmen hugged Galn, his throat tight. He could feel the extent to which Teleg’s father had grown thinner.

“Go and fire a few thorns then,” said Master Galn, irritably before freeing himself.

Although visibly tired, his mentor would not sit down in his presence. Pelmen did not delay in taking the box and leaving the room.

Through the window, he saw Astar had touched the line of the horizon.

Teleg, who had followed him with his gaze, was smiling. “Go on.

We’ll see you again soon. I still have work to do this evening.”

The amusement platform, one of the four major ones, where the archery range was located, was easy to reach. Master Galn’s bow was obviously much more powerful than the one Teleg made. He would certainly need time to get used to it; that first session turned out to be a fiasco. As he returned to Xuven’s shop, however, Pelmen envisaged the future with confidence. In the fullness of time, he would succeed in mastering it.

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The following evening, his uncle surprised him by suggesting that he watch Pelmen train. Slightly anxious, he hurried to fetch the bow and thorns. Xuven stopped him with a gesture.

“Your abilities as a wrestler will be just as necessary to succeed in the Recruitment tournament. The prospect of fighting doesn’t frighten you, I hope? The years have made a sturdy fellow of you.”

“You think so?”

“Your modesty does you honor. Let’s go, my lad.”

Pelmen did not particularly enjoy direct confrontation, but he had no answer ready.

Beneath the last fires of Astar, the immense windswept esplanade was tinted red. Clamors rose up from several stone arenas.

Here and there, novices armed with clubs were striking wooden mannequins, young men equipped with hoops were lining up facing pillars, and on the archery range, bowmen were sending their long thorns toward targets stuck in the ground. Near the edge of the platform, gathered in a circle around their Wings, Riders of the Wind were in a huddle, discussing tactics.

Xuven guided Pelmen to a stage, around the perimeter of which a handful of hevelens with glistening limbs were standing. All eyes were focused on two wrestlers, one of whom, with red curls and broad shoulders, was bracing himself to meet his rival’s charge. The planks groaned and trembled under the feet of the massive individual, whose flabby belly swayed with every move that he made. The flamboyant hair would soon be floating in the wind, projected like a wisp of straw…

But no, he was more like a tenacious liana winding around his prey. The hevelen with the fiery hair had gripped the fleshy neck of his adversary with his arms, and the later was twisting and writhing in vain.

Cries of “Go on, Arlece” and “Take him down!” were heard.

Sinking his knees beneath the ribs, the skillful fellow caused his victim to buckle, and then to collapse. The one named Arlece maintained his grip on the throat until the assembly had declared him the victor by acclamation.

“There’s an adversary that should suit you,” Xuven murmured to his nephew. “Perhaps you’ll think him unworthy of you because he’s not yet a hunter, like all the novices around this stage, but it’s

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necessary to begin somewhere.”

Pelmen stared at his uncle, who did not seem to be joking, and then at the defeated individual lying on the ground, whose tanned face had taken on a violet tint and who was holding his throat, striving to get his breath back.

“I…I don’t know,” said Pelmen, going pale. “Perhaps it would be better to start…with someone else.”

With a condescending smile on his lips, Arlece looked down at his victim. He put on a confident expression in order to embrace the audience with his gaze.

“Go on, then! His face doesn’t please you, is that it? Look at him strut! It’s time to bring him down a peg. Hup! Over here! My nephew will gladly take you on!” Xuven shoved Pelmen between the shoulderblades, making him stumble toward the stage.

“What’s this? Do you want to fight me, shaven-skull?” Arlece’s brown eyes were gleaming with anticipation. In addition to the reek of oil, his skin exuded a perfume Pelmen thought was only worn by females.

“Well….”

“Play by the rules, then. Take off your shirt and get up here. If you leave the combat arena, you’ve lost. But that won’t happen—you’ll have bitten the dust long before then!”

Pelmen could not get out of it without looking like a coward.

Under the mocking gaze of Arlece and his companions, he took off his shirt and got ready to climb up onto the stage. Xuven held him back by his wrist.

“Grease yourself up first. If not, you’ll be at a disadvantage.” He pointed at a clay pot at the foot of the stage and Pelmen went to daub himself with broad, jerky gestures. Then he joined his antagonist, trying not to lower his gaze or let his shoulders slump. All his muscles taut, Pelmen watched out for the slightest movement.

Arlece sized him up, with his arms folded. Suddenly, he leapt up and slammed his foot down on the ground, making Pelmen shiver and step back.

Arlece turned to the audience and burst out laughing, his hands on his hips, to huge jeers at Pelmen’s expense. Furious, Pelmen rushed at the joker. He tried to take hold of him and throw him down, but

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Arlece sidestepped and his fingers slid over the oily skin.

“You want to know who’s the stronger, do you?” said Arlece.

Swiftly, seizing him by the forearms, he pushed with such vigor that Pelmen, taken by surprise, recoiled three paces before being able to block the thrust.

That type of jousting did not frighten him. Summoning up all his energy, with a grunt, he braced himself on his legs: one step, then two.

It was Arlece’s turn to adopt an expression of astonishment.

Pelmen did not relent in his effort. Then, as they came closer to the edge of the stage, he saw anxiety and alarm in Arlece’s eyes. One more step and victory would be his.

Arlece brutally pulled free, however, Pelmen, who had been expecting that, stopped his surge before moving out of range, for fear of a new trick.

They both moved back to the center of the arena. Arlece’s smile had mutated into an arrogant rictus. They circled each other, moving closer. Pelmen had decided to allow Arlece to take the initiative, in order to counter-attack.

As he had expected, Arlece’s fist shot out, and he raised his arm to protect his face, but it was only a feint, and in a flash, the combat was joined. Arlece grabbed his arm and unleashed a terrible upward thrust with his knee, connecting with his abdomen. Pelmen doubled up, the wind knocked out of him while his adversary, with a turning movement, twisted his arm and threw him to the ground, with a forearm on his neck.

Pelmen, who was groggy, had not yet felt complete humiliation until the other pressed down on his back, and shoved his face against the planks with one hand. Through the fog in which he was struggling, he heard Arlece’s voice murmur in his ear: “You fight like a Disinherited!”

Pelmen was so disgusted with himself, that he did not dare raise his head to look his uncle in the eye, during the long walk back home.

“That’s not very conclusive,” said Xuven. “Apparently, you have the strength but not the technique.”

Annoyed, Pelmen could not argue with him. He hesitated, then darted a glance at his uncle. “Do you…intend to train me?”

“Certainly not!”

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Pelmen lowered his head again, feeling dejected.

“I don’t know anything about the art of wrestling. But you’re better with a bow?”

“Yes…at least, I think so. I’ve never compared myself with anyone in Alveg.”

“When the time comes, you’ll have to show me what you’re worth in that respect too.” Xuven sighed. “Fortunately, you’re making yourself useful in the shop.”

Arlece was an adversary of some stature, and Pelmen thought it would be difficult for him to reach a comparable level between now and the tournament. If he succeeded in doing so, however, the chances of his talents as a fighter impressing the representatives of the Indomitable Hunter would be increased. He needed to find a master in order to win that race against time.

I can’t count on Master Galn for now, and I don’t have the means to hire the services of a wrestling master.

The next day, Pelmen brooded. Xuven had just traded two blushing young women a fertility balm for two beautiful camlorns—they went away chattering and laughing surreptitiously—when a disagreeably familiar stench invaded the shop. Pelmen’s fingers tightened on the counter and his jaws clenched.

Xuven, meanwhile, smiled in the direction of the threshold. “My dear brother! So my messenger did his job! You’ve acted quickly.”

Xuven turned to his nephew. “Sorry—I forgot to tell you. As you can understand, I couldn’t leave your parents unaware of your fate.”

Pelmen shot him a murderous stare.

He should have expected his uncle to do that. Since his arrival in Alveg, every time he had thought about contacting his parents to at least let them know that he was still alive, Pelmen had put it off until later. It was not for want of missing Dryna, but the many hours of suffering he had endured at the tannery had a tendency to blot out all the good times he had spent beside her. And above all, he did not want to have to deal with his father.

Dusty and bathed in sweat, Zenel strode into the shop. He shot an unfriendly glance at Xuven before directing his yellow eyes at Pelmen. His old ragged loincloth looked out of place here.

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“You’re coming with me,” he said, in a harsh voice.

Pelmen felt a sharp twinge in his chest as he squeezed his fists under the counter. Xuven was wearing his usual imperturbable expression.

“Right now!”

Pelmen started slightly, but his voice was filled with anger when he replied: “I’m old enough to make my own choices. And I’ve chosen to remain here, where I’m more useful. If you haven’t brought your henchmen from the tannery with you, I don’t see how you hope to make me obey you.”

Zenel swung back unsteadily on his legs, as if he had been punched. Collecting himself, he sniffed scornfully as he looked at Xuven.

“Is that what you’ve told him, making him think that he’s at home here?”

“He is. I’ve agreed to accept him as my apprentice as you must have suspected from his outfit. At his age, he has the right to offer himself to a new task-master.”

“So that’s how it is! You’re trying to take him away from me; to get your own back…because I’ve always been better than you at tanning. Because, like him, like a milk-livered galcyne, you disgraced yourself back in the day!”

Pelmen looked at Xuven, surprised, but the latter hardly furrowed his brow. “Your words are running ahead of your thoughts, Zenel. The fatigue of the journey must be affecting you. Come and refresh yourself with a glass of beer; that will set you to rights. We might as well talk about this calmly.”

“Nidepoux-shit! —I’ve wasted too much time on you two.” He advanced toward Pelmen. “I’ll show you I don’t need anyone else to take you back home!”

Pelmen prepared to meet him.

“I’ll remind you,” said Xuven, in a voice which sounded both icy and cutting; freezing his brother in his tracks, “that Pelmen is under my protection and the Tireless Voyager’s since he’s my apprentice. Even if you succeed in dragging your son away, you won’t get far. Don’t tell me you’re so ignorant that you don’t know what the banner over my shop signifies?”

“There’s no point, father.” Pelmen added. “I’d still refuse to work in the tannery. You were wrong to set the other workers on to me.”

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Zenel turned white with rage. He knew he was beaten, but he shouted at Pelmen regardless: “You want to be a hunter, do you? How are you going to do that, you poor imbecile? A runt like you would rather run away than fight!”

If Zenel hoped to make him lose his temper, he was wasting his time. Turning pale, Pelmen growled at his father through gritted teeth.

“We have nothing more to say to each other.”

With a menacing grimace on his face, Zenel turned on his heel.

“What a dungheap!” muttered Pelmen, as he slammed the door so violently that it shuddered on its hinges.

“It’s his ignorance that blinds him,” said Xuven. “He reminds me of a wounded sanrkhas, all the more furious because he can’t understand where his pain comes from.”

“I’m the one who doesn’t understand,” said Pelmen. “How can you find excuses for him? And how could you tell him without even mentioning it to me?”

“I needed to know whether your renunciation of the tannery was sincere. If I had warned you he was coming, your blood would have been up, and you might have made some plan or other.”

“I could have prepared myself, you mean.”

“The confrontation was necessary. At least you’ve been able to say what was in your heart. Believe me, you can’t build anything much on lies or shame.”

Pelmen studied his uncle with his eyebrows raised. A grave expression was imprinted on his features. “You know something about it, don’t you? He…he was telling the truth? You ran away from the tannery too?”

“I had no choice. Just like you. Life is an algam, you see. It’s necessary to let it take flight, or suffer the consequences.”

That day was to be one of unexpected encounters, for while the last customers were leaving the shop, the pleasant silhouette of Alicene appeared in the entrance. Her hair was untidy and she seemed troubled.

Her cerulean eyes were magnified as she drew nearer to Pelmen.

“Father’s asking to see you,” she said, without even greeting him.

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Breathing in deeply she continued tearily: “He doesn’t have much time…”

Pelmen’s eyes widened He needed a moment before he was able to stammer: “You…you’re sure? Really? How is that possible?”

“A relapse,” she said, in a broken voice.

“By Aoles! It’s enough to make one think Valshhyk were harassing him. I can’t believe it.”

Alicene took another deep breath, clearly struggling to compose herself. Her odor was of affliction and resignation. Fists clenched, Pelmen turned to head toward the back room of the shop like a sleepwalker.

“What’s the matter?” asked his uncle, on seeing him. “You’re so pale.”

“It’s Master Galn, the one for whom I asked you about the best herbalist in Alveg. He’s had a relapse.”

“You’re very fond of him, aren’t you?”

Pelmen unclenched his fists, his shoulders slumped, and his voice cracked. “Without him, I wouldn’t be here. He’s always believed in me.

He made me…better. And not only because he taught me to draw a bow, you understand.”

“Then go to see him, my boy. It’s at times like this it’s necessary to be there for one’s friends.”

“Thanks.”

Outside, he kept pace with Alicene, who was almost running. He would have liked to fly. He can’t die—not until I’ve paid back at least part of my debt! At least he deserves to see me progress, to see his efforts weren’t in vain...

At least that.

The walls of the carpenter’s workshop, lit by oil lamps, were resonating to an irregular click clack. His features distressed and his eyes red, Teleg was still at work. Under strokes delivered with neither conviction nor application, the piece of wood in the vice had become formless, unusable. When Pelmen walked toward him, Teleg looked up at him without appearing to recognize him. Troubled, Pelmen nevertheless put his arms around his friend.

Finally, Teleg’s gaze became animated when Pelmen murmured: “Be strong. Be brave. I’m with you.”

The flint chisel fell to the ground with a dull thud. Teleg’s jaws were still clenched.

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“It’s over…over!” he hissed, between his teeth. His body convulsed with sobs.

Pelmen pulled away in horror. There was something definitive in his friend’s eyes, which he had never seen there before. Wavering on limbs as stiff as a marionette’s, Pelmen rejoined Alicene. He crossed the room to collapse onto his knees at the foot of the bed on which the desiccated husk of the once-great Master Galn was lying.

Alicene huddled once last time against her father’s breast. She remained there for some time before straightening up, her face bathed with tears and her lips stretched into a poor smile. “He’s no longer suffering now,” she said to Pelmen, holding out her hand to him.

He accepted her help and stood up, without wiping away his own tears. Bending down with difficulty, he deposited a single kiss on the scarcely recognizable forehead of the person who had been more than a mentor, more than a friend. He turned away, his breast shaking with uncontrollable convulsions.

His feet carried him as far as the threshold of the dwelling. The night was clear, the stars unmasked by the halo of the two glimmering moons. He breathed in great gulps of the cool air. Some moments had passed before the first coherent thought came to him.

The wind carries away the breath of the dead.

He shook his head to the right and left. Galn’s death was so brutal, so unjust. Why had he imagined that his mentor would pull through? Bugen had warned him about the danger of a relapse. All that hope; that stupid hope, which had swelled his heart…the better to pierce it, no doubt!

Only then did Pelmen notice the silent presence of Teleg by his side.

“So, your…your father…asked to see me?” he said.

Teleg raised his eyelids, pulling himself out of is torpor. He sniffed noisily. “One of the last things he managed to say.”

“One of the last things…” Pelmen lowered his head. Once again, he could not hold back his tears. “One of the last things,” he repeated.

“One of his last thoughts was for me, and I wasn’t there. After all that he did for me…”

“Hey!” Teleg shook his shoulder. His pupils were gleaming in the gloom. “Stop it! You couldn’t have known. If anyone’s at fault, it’s me.

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I’m the one who told you too soon that he was out of danger.”

Silence fell. Pelmen was the first to lower his eyes.

“You know,” said Teleg, “I don’t think he suffered much, thanks to the second remedy.” He turned his face away, but not quickly enough to keep Pelmen from seeing his misty eyes.

Alicene, who had sidled over to them, took Pelmen’s hand. The young hevelen’s skin was icy. “It’s because of you,” she said, in an unusual voice, “that we recovered him for the space of a day. Yes, Father was himself again. That’s priceless. That’s the image I’ll keep of him.”

“But what if…” Pelmen licked his lips. “What if the remedies hastened his end?”

“We’ll never know,” Teleg said, frowning. “What’s certain is he was already doomed. No herbalist had succeeded in getting him back on his feet before the one you brought.”

“If only…if only I’d arrived in time to talk to him!”

“Oh, I know what he wanted to say to you,” said Teleg.

Pelmen’s heart skipped a beat.

“He told me, immediately after making me promise to look after Alicene. He wanted you to keep his bow.”

A wave of pure warmth unfurled, momentarily sweeping away grief and pain, stirring the utmost depths of Pelmen’s soul. His lips tremulous, he struggled to recover the use of speech. Bathed in the deep blue light of the two moons, Galn’s children, their features creased, sniffed the air in his direction.

“No,” said Pelmen, finally, wiping his eyes. “It’s you, Teleg, who should have it.”

“To the one who can get the best out of it,” Teleg replied.

“That’s how he saw it. It’s you who deserve it.”

“Father wanted you to keep it,” added Alicene. “I’m sure of it.”

Pelmen perceived his flesh prickling. “But I’m only a…” he stammered. “I’m so…I...I don’t know what to say…”

“Then don’t say anything,” Teleg interjected.

A gust of wind made them shiver a little more, and they went back inside.

“We need to summon the Seer now,” Teleg declared.

Even though he felt overwhelmed by fatigue and emotion, Pelmen offered to stay.

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“Your uncle’s waiting for you,” said Alicene, softly.

“Don’t torture yourself too much,” said Teleg. “I’ll take care of everything.”

“Easy to say.”

“You can come back tomorrow if you want.”

Pelmen agreed and after hugging them both, left. He walked at a slow pace, his limbs incredibly heavy.

When he got back, rather late, lost in his thoughts, Pelmen found Xuven’s shop plunged in darkness. Groping his way, he went up to the loft serving as his bedroom without delay.

Sleep did not come for several hours. His mind kept replaying the events leading up to the death of the man he thought he had saved. His feverish mind, finally overwhelmed by exhaustion, drifted off to sleep, haunting him with terrible, fleeting images he couldn’t remember for most of the night.

At dawn, Xuven’s usual bustle woke him up. Without feeling at all rested, Pelmen opened eyelids swollen by fatigue and sat up.

His gaze sought Mils, his ptat, and, not finding him, wandered over the surrounding casks, to pause on the blue box. His heart in his mouth, he went to move it, in order to hide the object that had belonged to Master Galn.

Xuven did not press him with questions, but his silence was sufficient for Pelmen to tell him in a few short sentences about his mentor’s death.

“So this Master Galn,” Xuven enquired, “was a carpenter, and he had two children?”

“My only friends here,” Pelmen confirmed. “I’d like to be able to console them, or, at least, do my best to help them.”

“Is one of them Worthy?”

Pelmen wrinkled his nose. “Worthy?”

“If neither of them is Worthy,” Xuven affirmed, “they won’t be able to keep their father’s workshop.”

Pelmen opened his eyes wide.

“When a master craftsman yields his last breath,” Xuven explained, smoothing his beard, “his shop reverts to the Aguerri on

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whom it was dependent, before being reassigned. If one of the master craftsman’s children is Worthy, it’s granted to him. If not, the Aguerri—in the case of your friends, the Carpenter Emeritus— designates the person who will become its proprietor. A Worthy individual, of course.”

“But who are they?”

“Hevelens who have passed the trial of Merit. For that, they have to prove their practical knowledge and skill before the representatives of the Aguerris, who judge the success or failure of the enterprise. The representatives never put themselves out for nothing. Those who fail in the trial are penalized.”

Pelmen felt the scales falling from his eyes. The shock caused by Master Galn’s death had caused him to lose sight of the delicate situation in which Teleg and Alicene would find themselves.

“I don’t know whether Teleg is Worthy,” he murmured.

“I suggest you ask him next time you see him.”

Pelmen did not stop thinking about Master Galn, Teleg and Alicene for the rest of the day—so much so that, after he had given trana spirit to the old man who had asked for a mug of beer, a fishingnet to a young hevelen who wanted a set of dice and linguilis cloth to an elegant and dignified client who wanted chanvreline cloth, Xuven thought it preferable to limit him to the most routine tasks.

When evening came, Pelmen plucked up his courage and went to the Boisencroix’s house. His friends’ abode in Alveg, unlike the one in Falsine—once a place of happiness, or at least of comfort—had shown itself to be the very focal point of pain and affliction.

He wanted to return to Alveg because he sensed his end was near. He wanted to die in the city where he had spent his childhood.

Pelmen pursed his lips. Why could one only be lucid in misfortune? Despite the progressive decline in Master Galn’s health, despite the slim chance he had of recovering from his lung disease, until the last few days Pelmen had never really been prepared for the possibility of losing him.

Can you prepare yourself, though? Or can you only know what it’s like when it happens?

The silence radiating from the house carved into the rock under

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the banner of the Carpenter Emeritus was overwhelming. Alicene, who opened the door to him, had put up her hair in a bun but was wearing the same clothes as the day before. Her eyes were ringed by dark shadows; her features waxy.

“Neither of us is Worthy,” she replied, when Pelmen, after asking after their health, put the question of greatest importance. “Teleg has gone to ask for a trial of Merit, in order that we might keep the shop.”

Teleg, with unkempt hair and bloodshot eyes, appeared behind her and confirmed it with a nod of his head.

“There are risks, I believe,” said Pelmen.

“That’s why neither my father nor I kept our arms folded in recent days.” While speaking, Teleg had moved toward the wall, where a beautifully-manufactured but incomplete harp stood. “We began this in Falsine. With this, I’ll limit the risks. My father assured me it would pass.”

“But it’s nearly finished?”

“Of course,” said Alicene. “To create a harp from start to finish in front of the Carpenter’s examiners would take much too long!

They’ll only come to observe the final touches, making sure Teleg’s style is in accord with that of the object.”

“Every carpenter possesses his own technique,” Teleg added. “For those who understand that, it’s easy to spot a flaw in the execution.”

“When will the trial take place?” Pelmen asked.

“In two days, at the beginning of the afternoon, on the major platform of artisans.” With a bitter smile, Teleg added: “That kind of thing isn’t dragged out.”

A little later, when Pelmen asked Xuven for permission to watch the trial of Merit, the latter examined him carefully.

“I owe it to him to be at his side,” Pelmen explained, embarrassed by his uncle’s penetrating gaze. “Especially after what he’s been through.”

“You’re supposed to be my apprentice.”

His lips taut, Pelmen was content to await the verdict.

“And what about your training? You’re neglecting it. I haven’t seen you with your bow this evening.”

“My bow? Er...Master Galn’s bow, you mean?”

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“He gave it to you as a gift.”

Pelmen shook his head. There was a bitter taste in his mouth.

“It’s too much. It’s too hard. To pick it up again would seem like…”

“Robbing him? Committing a sacrilege?”

“Very nearly,” Pelmen replied, plunging his gaze into his uncle’s gray eyes.

“Listen, my boy—you should ask yourself the right questions.

What do you think Galn’s body looks like right now? The flesh around his bones must have started to decompose—you should know that.

Am I shocking you? Do you think I’m being too hard? Well, life’s like that. It doesn’t wait. It won’t wait for you.”

Pelmen shot a furious glance to him. “What are you trying to say?”

Xuven sighed. “I’m trying to make you understand you’re at a decisive moment. Is it a body, a cadaver you want to honor? Or would you prefer to realize the hopes of the person who, on the threshold of death, bequeathed his wealth to you? Do you want to hang on to a memory? Or would you rather grab the present with both hands?”

“I…I don’t know anymore. I need to think about it.”

Xuven’s only response was to grunt and wrinkle his nostrils.

That evening, Pelmen went back to his loft with his shoulders sagging. By the pale light of an oil lamp which he held, he cleared away the obstacles separating him from the blue box. The oil in the lamp had almost run out when he finally plucked up the courage to lift the lid.

The bow appeared to him, supple and robust, elegant and noble.

With a trembling finger, he caressed the harmonious curves. Should the object not to be resting alongside its rightful master?

That was not what Master Galn had wanted.

Pelmen raised his head and saw a shining star through the skylight. His decision made he blew out the lamp and headed toward his bed of straw.

“Will you…let me train on my own to begin with?” he asked Xuven, when he saw him again the following morning. “I still need time to accustom myself to the bow.”

“You’ve made the right decision. You have a week. I’m impatient to know how you get on, and anyway, the tournament’s not far off. You’ll need to be ready soon. That’s why you won’t be helping me in the shop today.”

“I…you’re permitting me to practice, is that it? Well…thanks!”

“It’s not me that you need to thank. Simply reach the level he expected of you and that will be thanks enough.”

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Chapter Five THE SANCTUARY OF THE TEN

There was a cloying smell of oil, sweat and perfume on the recreation platform as wrestlers, archers and idlers of both sexes strolled casually around between the arenas that morning. As he headed for the archery range, Pelmen found himself staring at Arlece’s flamboyant hair. Arlece had just handed a quiver, bow and thorns to a companion and was approaching one of the many stages.

Pelmen decided to study him. Arlece easily floored two adversaries, using skill, as well as strength, and Pelmen desperately tried to memorize his techniques. Although he was painfully aware that it was practice which would give him the best chance of victory, he nevertheless figured it would do no harm to watch and learn. After quickly disposing of the second wrestler, Arlece strutted to the edge of the stage, challenging Pelmen with a menacing stare.

Pelmen did not want to let go of his bow, even for a few minutes and so turned away and continued on his way, stopping a hundred paces from one of the targets, a wooden manikin. Slowly, he took out several bundles of thorns, tied up with a cord, with which he was equipped. Then, fighting back a sigh, he lifted Master Galn’s bow—his bow. Guided by memories of his first experiment with the weapon, he had decided not to fire at the target to begin with, in order to concentrate on firing distances.

The string was still as difficult to draw. The first attempt was too short, the second, badly managed, went askew. When, after a while, Pelmen went to pick up the arrows, and then shot again, mechanically, the absurdity of the exercise drew grimaces of annoyance from him.

Why continue, when the person who had taken him to one of the corridors of the Canyons one day, and who had shown him what a mar-

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velous thing it was to draw a bow, no longer existed? Why upset himself ? What was the point?

To match his skill… The Pelmen who might have tried to do that was a different person. Someone who wouldn’t have this gaping hole in his life.

Feeling hungry, Pelmen went to sit down in a deserted corner of the esplanade. He rummaged in his satchel and ate without tasting his food, then went back to take up his position again and resume his session, without any more conviction. He continued until his fingers were burning, and he felt as if he was making progress, even if that progress resulted in a painful shoulder. Determined to prove himself, Pelmen focused on the pain, telling himself that at least it proved that he was still alive.

“Pel? My son?”

Pelmen turned round. For a second, he stood here stupidly, wondering who the stout hevelen was whose crudely shorn head gleamed under Astar’s rays and had stolen the sweet odor of his mother.

“Mama?” he finally said. “What have you done?”

He interrupted himself, his breath cut short. Dryna had just thrown herself into his arms and was hugging him so tight that he thought he would break in two. He did his best to return the embrace while she babbled in his ear. The warmth of his mother’s skin shooed away the shadows which had up until a moment ago, been gripping his heart, making his pain more bearable.

“Astar be praised, you look well,” she said, pulling away and stepping back in order to look at him more closely, her nostrils quivering.

Pelmen forced a little smile. How emotional must his oh-so-discreet mother be to make such a display of her feelings in public?

Her face filled with compassion. “Your odor is that of grief, as Xuven told me. Yes, your uncle told me about Master Galn. And your gaze…it’s changed. Oh, my son, why did you have to come here?”

“It would have happened anyway,” replied Pelmen, hoarsely.

“Master Galn didn’t have much longer. And I think…no, I’m sure, it would have been even harder in Durepeaux. I would have felt that not only was I losing him, but also all of my hopes and dreams.”

Dryna resembled a wounded animal when she looked at him again. “You could have warned me, all the same! To tell me where you

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were…instead of leaving it to Xuven to do it.”

“I’m sorry, truly sorry; I would have done, but…Why didn’t you come with Zenel the other day?” he asked, changing the subject.

“He didn’t want me to come with him. He thought he’d be able to bring you back to Durepeaux.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I knew he was mistaken.”

“You know me, at least.”

Dryna’s expression became grave.

“What’s the matter?” Pelmen asked.

“Oh, I…” Her eyelids fluttered. “Before leaving, I made my own inquiries. I know what Zenel planned at the tannery. I know you left because of that.”

“Not only that, Mama.”

“But if you don’t like it here,” she went on, without paying any heed to the interruption, “you can come back. You’ll always have a place there, you know. Even if I have to make your father swallow rotten nidepoux broth for six months before he ends up accepting you. It’s nothing less than what he deserves, trying to trap you the way he did.”

Pelmen watched her and then burst out laughing, pleased when his mother started laughing uncontrollably too. He realized that her presence made him feel better, and he placed his hands tenderly on her shoulders.

“Thanks, but it’s not going to happen,” he said, softly. “You see, before you arrived, I asked myself a lot of questions. Thanks to you, I understand that it’s here I need to be. I have to go forward, make progress, and do it not only for Master Galn but for myself. It’ll be difficult at first, but never as difficult as cutting up nidepoux hides.”

“You’re firmly decided, then. You know you might have to travel with your uncle; to go to distant countries, including some outside the Canyons? That terrifies me.”

“Yes, he’s talked to me about it. It’s pretty frightening, it’s true. I admit, however, I want to find out more about the places where he swaps all of the merchandise he has. Then again, I’ll have to earn my food and shelter sooner or later.”

Dryna nodded her head. “I know you well enough to know you won’t change your mind. At least promise me you’ll be careful.”

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“Of course, Mama. That’s a promise. Er…I wanted to ask you…what’s become of Mils? You haven’t brought him?”

Dryna pursed her lips. Pelmen looked at her anxiously.

“The first two days after you left, I gave him something to eat.

Afterward…afterward, he no longer came. I think he understood you weren’t coming back.”

“Then…” Pelmen’s throat was dry. “Then he too has gone to live his own life. It’s probably better that way.”

Astar had begun his decline toward the line of the horizon.

“Are you spending the night in Xuven’s house?” Pelmen asked.

“I can’t, Mistress Buselden gave me a day’s leave, but no more.”

Mistress Buselden was the dressmaker in Durepeaux for whom Dryna worked.

“But the tiredness…” Pelmen protested.

“Don’t worry. I traveled aboard a nidepoux cart coming up here, and my legs are still strong. It’ll be all right.” She cast a glance at the day-star. “I mustn’t stay too long, though.”

“Give me time to pick up my thorns and I’ll come with you.”

While walking beside his mother, avoiding the hevelens and the animals which were being led by the bridle across the footbridges, Pelmen thought about how much effort his mother had put in coming to visit him. He felt guilty about being the only cause of her coming to the great city, without being able to help taking a certain pride in it.

To come here, she must finally have put some distance between her and Zenel. It’s about time.

“I’ve brought you our long-haired nidepoux blanket,” said Dryna. “It’s waiting for you at your uncle’s house.”

“You…you did that?” The warm and silky blanket, a gift from Olgen Peaudecuir, was the most precious thing they possessed, and it was Pelmen’s father’s pride and joy. “Does Zenel know?”

“Not yet,” she replied, with one of her malicious smiles. “You know he keeps it in his trunk and only takes it out once or twice a year to admire it. He won’t notice right away.”

“But when he does, how are you going to explain it?”

“I’ll tell him you needed it more than he does. I’ll talk to him about his responsibilities to you. He’s still your father.”

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“That won’t please him.”

“Don’t worry about it; I know how to handle him.”

“Oh, Mama…” He stopped, and putting his hand on her wrist, made her turn toward him, before hugging her. “Thanks. Thanks for that…and most of all, for having come.”

Dryna didn’t reply and turned away, fighting back her tears. They continued walking in silence into the tunnel leading down to the base of the massif, and emerged into the open air. There, at the foot of the great city, they said their goodbyes.

“Don’t forget the blanket if you go traveling. When you’re inside it, I know you’ll think of me.”

“I’ll take it,” Pelmen promised. “And I’ll come to see you, as soon as I can.”

They embraced once more, for a long time, before Pelmen pulled away gently. She stood there motionless while he turned around and went back into the tunnel.

Pelmen slept a little better that night. Every time the image of Master Galn on his death-bed came to torment him, racking him with questions about the fate of Teleg and Alicene, or he thought about his mother and Mils, he pressed the soft, comforting nidepoux fur against his skin. That was how he ended up going to sleep, with his cheek resting on it.

Before Astar reached his zenith the next day, Pelmen left for the artisans’ platform, with instructions to come back as soon as the trial of Merit was over. Between the weavers’ and potters’ shops, the air was filled by the hubbub of merchants appealing to passers-by and customers haggling over prices or making conversation, with the background sounds of carpenters tapping, polishing and cutting. For them, it’s just an ordinary day.

It was Alicene who saw him first. She was standing near the stage, and shouted to him after he had passed her by without noticing her. It was easy to tell by the rings beneath the young woman’s eyes and her halfclosed eyelids that the night had been very short. In spite of her tiredness and sorrow, Alicene tried her best to behave naturally around Pelmen.

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I dare not imagine what state Teleg’s in.

His friend sat on a stool set on the stage. His back bent, he seemed to be entirely absorbed in his task. Facing him, two unknown individuals were watching him.

“I hope he’ll succeed,” Alicene said. Teleg’s sister’s eyes sought out his own, looking for comfort—she must have reached the end of her rope, to rely on him!

He tried to look confident. “You heard what he said—he’s been preparing for this for some time. If your father was sure he would succeed, there’s no reason to think he was mistaken. Let me see how he is doing.”

Pelmen walked around the stage in order to assess the object which Teleg was working with flint in hand. There was an entire array of them at his feet, their cutting edges varying in size and thickness.

The harp was wedged between his knees. At the moment, Teleg was working on the inner curvature of the instrument’s upper section. His features were wrinkled in concentration. Pelmen was certain his friend had not noticed his arrival.

So far as he could judge, Teleg’s hand was steady, which was something of a marvel, considering what he had been through.

“I feared that tiredness might have dulled his skill,” Pelmen whispered to Alicene, “but I can’t see any deficiency. I’m not an expert, of course.”

“As long as those two are of the same opinion,” she replied.

Pelmen turned to look at “those two.” The examiners were wearing togas ornamented by the motifs of the Carpenter, displayed on an ochre and yellow background. One of them, old enough to be his father and short of stature had gray side-whiskers that tapered toward the chin. His brows furrowed, he was sitting motionless. The second individual, younger and less attentive, must have been having difficulty channeling his energy, for he never ceased shifting his large carcass, like a nidepoux too long confined in its pen.

Alicene, whom Pelmen was watching out of the corner of his eye, was visibly making an effort to adopt what might pass for a neutral attitude.

Teleg only paused for brief intervals to gauge the quality of his work. He continued to hollow, file and polish his instrument until he

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was happy that it had reached a degree of perfection needed. Then he took the strings which he had brought and extended them across the framework of the harp. A clear sound rang out. He checked his work one last time. When he got to his feet, turned toward the judges, and, not without a certain solemnity, held the object out to them, his face was a display of various contradictory emotions. Fear, pride and indecision were in conflict there.

The older hevelen took the harp, weighed it in his hands, and inspected it carefully. He strummed the strings, which emitted a sound Pelmen thought pleasant. That was not the opinion of the examiner, however, for he handed the instrument to his companion with a dismissive gesture. The massive individual scarcely cast a scornful glance over the harp before breaking it over his knee with a frightful and resounding crack.

“No!” howled Teleg.

Losing control of himself, he rushed toward the large examiner—who, with an authoritative sweep of the hand, struck him full in the face, sending him sprawling on the ground, half-stunned. Pelmen wanted to run to his aid, but Alicene’s frail arms encircled him, causing him to lose his balance and fall over.

“Don’t go; it’s useless! You’ll only make things worse!” she was sobbing and pleading, but holding on to him with the strength of desperation. Pelmen would have had to hurt her to pull free, so he became still.

“Did you see?” he groaned, propping himself up on his elbow and turning toward her.

She replied with a nod of the head, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“The Merit is not granted,” the first examiner announced.

Apparently, he thought he needed to specify, since breaking the harp wasn’t clear enough.

Teleg was lying on his back, his arms extended alongside his body, crushed by the weight of his failure and all his accumulated fatigue, even more than the blow he had received.

“Accordingly, you will carry out for our lord the Carpenter Emeritus the functions of windlass-operator, from today onwards and for the two following springs. All the property of your deceased father, the master craftsman Galn Boisencroix, now belong to our lord, who

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will dispose of it as he sees fit. In his great forbearance, the Carpenter Emeritus consents to employ your sister, Alicene Boisencroix here present, in his quarters in the Sanctuary of the Ten, where she will become one of his maidservants.”

The examiner directed his mocking, hawk-like gaze at Alicene.

Pelmen, his fists clenched, wanted to make him swallow his words, and he muttered through his teeth: “We’ll see whether or not she’ll serve him!”

“Don’t get involved!” Alicene pleaded again, gripping his arm with her long, slender fingers. Once again, he looked at her uncomprehendingly.

“It’s my fate at stake; it’s up to me to decide it.” The young woman’s voice was firm; her bloodshot gaze meeting Pelmen’s without flinching. “What has happened is…it’s horrible, I know; my brother doesn’t deserve it at all, but I beg you not to make things even more difficult. At least the Carpenter treats his maidservants decently.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s well known. Believe me, a place in the Sanctuary of the Ten is far from being the worst thing that could happen to me. At least there, I’ll be able to try to keep an eye on my brother.”

“He’ll be there?”

“In the section reserved for windlass-operators. You’ll be able to visit him, I think.”

Alicene turned toward the shorter of the two examiners, who had drawn near and could not have failed to hear her last remark. His silence was tantamount to confirmation: if visits had been forbidden, he would not have kept it private.

“Come with me,” he said to Alicene.

She gestured silently to Pelmen that all would be well. He stood aside, with an ill grace.

The brutal examiner had hoisted Teleg, who was still semi-conscious, onto his shoulder. He came down from the stage as if he were carrying an insignificant burden.

With his soul feeling as if it were dying, Pelmen watched them move away. He could not believe what had just unfolded before his eyes. The meaninglessness of Master Galn’s death had been followed up by further tragedy. Slowly, numbly, he went to pick up the abandoned flints.

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*** The vigorously launched cactus thorn sped across the two hundred yards separating it from the target to lodge, vibrating, in the leg of a wooden puppet attached to the platform. Pelmen turned to his uncle and nodded his head.

The week before, after Teleg’s failure and the heavy penalty inflicted on him, Pelmen had wondered whether he might need to give up on Alveg and those who exercised power there. When he had told Xuven about the disastrous conclusion to the trial of Merit, his uncle expressed sympathy, while manifesting disappointment rather than surprise. “I’ve heard tell of skillful apprentices finding themselves set aside, to the profit of hevelens who benefit from the favor of Aguerris,” his uncle explained, “but there’s no proof. Until now, I assure you, not all Aguerris have acted like Ferestas Taillebois—the Carpenter’s name. In my opinion, you shouldn’t look at it as a desire to do harm but largely a matter of thoughtlessness. Ferestas is a gambler, and rumor has it that he has recently got into debt as a result of stupid bets. To him, any means seems good to get the wind behind him again.

If Teleg had, let’s say, thought to offer him his best pieces, his chance of success would undeniably have been increased.”

Pelmen had wrinkled his nose in disgust. The songs praising the nobility and wisdom of the Aguerris were no more than songs, then.

More than ever, he understood that if he wanted to succeed in his own endeavors, he would have to fight, and try to come through the trials without expecting any leniency.

The physical challenge did not displease him so that in his free time, he aggressively drew the empty string of the bow he kept behind the counter, imagining he was taking aim at each of the two examiners, quaking in fear. They had only been carrying out orders, of course, but he had never seen the Carpenter.

After some initial stiffness, his muscles became accustomed to prolonged effort, and over the course of evenings spent on the recreation platform, the old feeling came back to him with increasing sharpness as he familiarized himself with his bow. The distance he was able

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to attain now surpassed anything he had been able to reach before.

Xuven studied him as if seeing him for the first time. “I must admit that it isn’t commonplace, to hit the target at that distance five times running against the wind. But don’t let it go to your head; it still remains to be seen how you perform in a lateral wind. Let’s go pick up your arrows.”

They drew nearer, and Xuven whistled between his teeth. Except for the last, less precise shot, the thorns were all planted in a neat group in the torso of the puppet. Pelmen did his best to pull them out without damaging them, but was obliged nonetheless to throw away two that had become unusable. Still accompanied by Xuven he went back to the shooting area, taking for his target a puppet due south of his position.

From the quiver given to him by his uncle—“What would an archer be without his quiver?” he had asked Pelmen in a gruff tone—he took several thorns and carefully selected those he was about to employ.

His nostrils quivered, his entire body infused with the breath of Aoles. He sensed the wind; the wind was within him.

Calmly, he drew the bow which had belonged to Master Galn, releasing the string at the right time. The dart flew, heading to the left of the puppet. Caught by a gust of wind, it scored a direct hit.

Xuven shot him such an incredulous glance that it almost provoked a smile from Pelmen. When three out of the other four projectiles had hit their target, Xuven placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder.

“One might think Aoles were guiding your hand in person.”

“Does that mean I can remain in your service?”

“Of course. You’re genuinely gifted, it’s true. Especially for being so…”

“What?”

“I should tell you the scent that clings to you most frequently these days is that of anger.” Xuven raised his hand to prevent his nephew from responding and went on: “Oh, it’s normal to revolt against injustice, but anger, although it permits advancement at times, is a double-edged flint. Don’t travel too long in the company of that beast, or you risk feeling its bite when it begins to devour your heart.”

Taken aback, Pelmen remained silent, suddenly aware that he couldn’t hide how he was feeling from his uncle.

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“Think about pleasant things,” said Xuven. “About those you love, about good times spent in their company. No one can take those moments away from you. There is more to the world than just the bad things.

Pelmen thought about arguing, but instead he uttered a big sigh.

His eyes stared into the void. “You’re probably right,” he admitted finally. “If not, I wouldn’t have met you.”

“What’s that I see?” said Xuven, ironically. “One might almost think it was a smile. Come on, I prefer that.”

Pelmen went to extract the thorns from the puppet before replacing them in his quiver. He would have to go down to the plain to harvest more thorns from the cacti in order to replenish his stock. As he came back, he raised his eyes along the granite cliff of the Alveg Mountain, all the way to the immense palace of gilded rock crowning it. The distinctive tint of the Sanctuary of the Ten, which was found nowhere else in the Canyons, gave him the impression a piece of the sky had been detached, as an ambassador, to settle there and watch over the inhabitants of the city. The swollen and bulbous form was fascinating, even from afar. From time to time, a Wing of Aoles launched forth from the top of one of its ten towers.

Pelmen turned up his nose. Deciding to concentrate all his efforts on his training was the logical thing to do in order to ensure that the sacrifices that he had made had not been in vain, but he could not help feeling a little guilty. His friends must think he had abandoned them.

“You can go and see them tomorrow morning,” Xuven said, pointing to the Sanctuary. “I have to be away from the shop, so you’ll have the whole day to yourself.”

Pelmen accepted with gratitude, and was getting ready to follow his uncle when he saw Arlece. The curly-haired wrestler was watching them.

Pelmen frowned, walking in the opposite direction so as to avoid him, however, he wasn’t fast enough.

“Fortunately for you,” said Arlece, “you’re better with your bow than you are at wrestling.”

Pelmen stopped, surprised. His uncle took another few steps forward before turning around, frowning.

“You were watching me?” asked Pelmen.

“That’s all I was doing,” said Arlece, ironically. “You can handle yourself.”

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“You think so? In that case, you and I make a pair.”

“I wouldn’t go that far…”

“I’ve just had an idea,” Pelmen interjected. “I could teach you what I know about archery, and in exchange, you could teach me to wrestle.

That way, we’d have all the trumps in our hand for the tournament.”

Arlece forced a smile. Pelmen thought he was about to be rudely put in his place with one of the mocking remarks Arlece had the knack of making, so he was surprised by the wrestler’s reply.

“Perhaps that’s not such a stupid proposition. Let’s see…how about this: we meet up tomorrow when Astar reaches his zenith, at Master Benras’ tavern in the Three Taverns sector. Might as well discuss it over a tankard.”

Pelmen looked at Xuven for guidance, who nodded imperceptibly.

“Agreed,” said Pelmen.

Early the following morning, with a satchel slung over his shoulder, Pelmen impatiently began climbing the cliff leading to the Sanctuary.

Astar’s rays were already decorating the edifice with a thousand beams of light. The palace of the Aguerris was so majestic and seemed so inaccessible that under normal circumstances, it would never have entered Pelmen’s mind to go there. He climbed the narrow stairways as quickly as possible. Soon, however, he had to slow down in order to catch his breath.

The high steps went on forever. Dressed luxuriously, Opulents perched in baskets surrounded by rigging overtook him. Hoisted by windlasses, they reached the summit well before him, in spite of the gusts of wind making their perches sway.

Pelmen had sturdy legs, and did not slow his progress once, although, by the end, he felt like a pain-ridden old man. Down below, the city deployed its multitude of footbridges and platforms, insignificant by comparison with the so-called major plazas. Under the breath of Aoles unfurling over the plateau, Pelmen advanced, his back bent, toward a gigantic granite portal surmounted by a sculpture on the same scale. The latter depicted an algam, which, on its rostrum, invited the visitor to follow it. The work was so ingenious Pelmen could not imagine how his fel-

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low hevelens could have accomplished it. It gave the impression that, at any moment, the bird might come to life and beat its wings.

His attention caught by the ruby-tinted hues of the portal’s lintels, Pelmen stared. Refusing to believe it at first, his eyes widened.

He had assumed that the supposed riches of the Sanctuary were an exaggeration due to the striking coloration of its walls, but it was necessary to yield to the evidence; the bars of amber rock alone represented an immeasurable treasure. It was only after recovering from his initial astonishment that he noticed an open stone doorway off to one side. Judging by the pair of hunters armed with flint spears and guarding the entrance, it must have been the more commonly used of the two; the other was obviously only used on ceremonial occasions.

Pelmen addressed himself to one of the guards, whose weatherbeaten face looked at him.

“I’ve come to visit a friend. May I come in?”

“Friend? What friend?”

“He’s a windlass-operator. A new one named Teleg, who arrived less than a week ago.”

“You’re in luck—they still need reinforcements,” the second guard, a stocky individual, piped up, with a predatory smile.

Pelmen did not much care for the joke, but he contented himself with waiting for the sentries to stop laughing.

With a grunt, the weatherbeaten guard invited him to follow him.

A soft light emanating from crystals that could be distinguished within the rock illuminated the vast interior of the palace. The visibly organic aspect of the exterior was also evident within. Pelmen felt a wall. Cold, hard and smooth, it was certainly stone, but so perfectly united that nothing suggested the blocks had been fitted.

Servants in the colored livery of their lords were hurrying back and forth; here and there, Opulents were conferring in small groups.

Overly emphatic laughter or exuberant exclamations rang out on occasion. Covered by an emerald green carpet, a monumental staircase led to the upper floor. The hunter ignored it to turn into a gently sloping corridor leading to the hall where the windlasses were housed. Daylight streamed through horizontal wooden bars which were seamlessly inlaid into the sills of the windows. The hunter veered to the left a little

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before the entrance; nevertheless, Pelmen caught a glimpse of three hevelens leaning over the handle of one of the windlasses; a second trio must have been working on the other side.

Dust had settled in the new corridor they went along. It tickled Pelmen’s nostrils, and he sneezed.

“Who does your friend work for?” asked the weatherbeaten hunter.

“The Carpenter Emeritus.”

A little way further on, after passing several doors, they went into a room whose atmosphere was saturated with acrid odors of sweat and dirt. Hevelens, young and old but all male, were living there in squalid conditions all too familiar to Pelmen, in the midst of filthy blankets, broken pitchers and straw pallets of more than questionable cleanliness. While the guard remained at the entrance, Pelmen looked around the place without finding Teleg. He questioned two windlass-operators before a third with a ruddy face and fetid breath intervened.

“You’re looking for a blond with violet eyes, is that right?”

“That’s him.”

“He’s doubtless in Master Dorecruche’s tavern in the city. He’s had a nasty fall, your mate—but between us, he’d better watch his back if he wants to last. The Aguerri here doesn’t like us to get drunk.”

Amazed, Pelmen asked: “How does Teleg pay for a drink?”

“He does what we all do, odd jobs for the boss at the tavern. We do it, and not even every day, because we’re only allowed to eat at work, but he’s young and strong. ” The hevelen’s eyes lit up. “What have you got in your satchel? Perhaps you can help me out…”

Pelmen took a step back to avoid the dirty hand, and the other burst out laughing while he drew away, without asking for any more. Pelmen retraced his steps, still escorted by the guard.

When they reached the first intersection, he asked which way to go to reach the servants’ quarters.

The hunter shook his head. “Only a few people are authorized to see the Aguerris’ personal servants. If there’s one you need to see, he’ll have to come and find you during his rest period.” In response to Pelmen’s distressed expression, he added, slyly, “I can get a message to him…if you have something to offer in exchange.”

“I don’t have anything,” Pelmen sighed. All that the satchel con-

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tained was his next meal, and he had no intention of trading it.

The guard pointed at the exit, signaling that he should leave.

“But I’ll come back, and I won’t be empty-handed.”

“I’ll look forward to that blessed day with impatience.”

Without further delay, Pelmen went back down the steps along the side of the cliff. He asked for Master Dorecruche’s establishment, and learned it was in the Three Taverns quarter.

As he strode over the footbridges and walked among the houses, the directions he had been given became confused in his mind.

I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.

Fortunately, the four major platforms situated at the cardinal points formed precious reference-points. Retracing his steps, Pelmen went back to the balcony circling the mountain. From there, he resumed his search more carefully.

When he began to encounter groups of two or three hevelens with vile smelling breath who were holding one another’s shoulders as they walked, he knew he had made no mistake this time.

A drunkard singing at the top of his voice leaned abruptly over the edge of the balustrade to empty the contents of his stomach.

Pelmen felt sorry for any unfortunate individual who might be passing by on the lower level.

The regulars were coming from a building whose banner, flapping in the wind, depicted an earthenware pitcher. Bawdy shouts mingled with the buzz of conversations scarcely permitted the intermittent chords of a lyre to be heard.

Pelmen entered the dive. At the back of the room, bare-breasted dancers with wrinkled skin swayed their hips provocatively without any respect for the rhythm of the music. That was of no importance anyway. For the clients, occupied as they were in exchanging the latest gossip over a tankard, were not paying any attention either to the dancers or to the old musician on the stage, who was as decrepit as his instrument. The beer was flowing freely, and the shaven-headed tavern-keeper was so busy he did not notice the new arrival.

Pelmen made his way to the counter and from there set about making his way along the line of cheerful drunks. Most of them had brought small trinkets, or even items of food, to pay for their tankard

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of beer or goblet of trana spirit. The landlord inspected the merchandise with a wary eye and then if he judged it adequate, made it disappear as if by magic before serving anyone.

When Pelmen discovered Teleg, the bare-chested young hevelen was gazing into the bottom of his tankard. Not at all sure what attitude to adopt, Pelmen approached him at a measured pace and tapped him on the shoulder.

His friend raised his head and contemplated him, haggardly. He had the beginnings of a beard and his hair had lost all of its shine.

Teleg recognized him after a momentary delay, but even then, his expression stayed a little suspicious.

“Why did you come?” Teleg asked, in a thick voice. His breath was noxious, and Pelmen took note of the hollow rings around his eyelids.

“Why? Aren’t we friends? Brothers, you told me, remember…”

“Yeah, for sure,” Teleg snarled. “My sister told me you were there when I underwent the trial. You can see where that led.”

Pelmen stood there open-mouthed. Teleg went back to his tankard, and then, after a pause, without looking at him, murmured: “It doesn’t matter now; it’s not important anymore.”

“Yes, it is,” Pelmen replied. “It’s very important to me. Do you think I should have intervened? That would have helped?”

“No, you were probably right…just like Alicene. I know she’s the one who stopped you from helping me. But you see…” Teleg looked at him, his eyes gleaming momentarily. “I no longer have enough energy. The only freedom I have left is to choose to be bitter and to drink myself senseless.” He laughed, mirthlessly. “If I didn’t hate songs so much, I could almost make one up about that.”

“You say so because you can’t think straight right now. Why not try to look further ahead? I’ve kept your set of flints, and I’ll bring them to you myself two springs from now. Yes, what’s happened to you is vile, I’m the first to admit that, but all hope isn’t lost. You’ll be able to start again…”

“You can be so naive! It’s obvious you’ve never been a windlass operator. Two springs might as well be an eternity. Even assuming I hold out that long, do you think I’ll still have any desire to work under the banner of that piece of shit Carpenter? I’d rather starve.”

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“You could change trades.”

“Change trades!” Teleg shook his head. You tire me, and Astar knows I don’t need anyone to make me tired these days. Go home.”

Although wounded by Teleg’s attitude, Pelmen realized that pushing his friend right now would not do either of them any good.

Teleg was simply not in a state to hold a conversation. Pelmen took a step toward the exit before changing his mind.

“I’ll be a hunter soon, and then, I swear to deploy all the winds of Aoles to get you out of it before your term. If it has to come to that, I’ll go as far as offering myself to finish it in your stead.”

Teleg shook his head, with a knowing expression. “I doubt that kind of arrangement is possible. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

They looked at one another and then Pelmen turned around and left for good. It was the first time his friendship with Teleg had been subjected to such a rough test. If he had been able to change the past, to go back and persuade his friend not to participate in that damned trial, at least for a while, he would have done so gladly. Windlass operator! Teleg’s fate was certainly not an enviable one.

Astar had almost attained his zenith already. From where he was standing, Pelmen could see the other two taverns.

Stirred by dark thoughts, he headed toward the one from which the most attractive odors emanated. That was indeed Master Benras’ establishment, as one of the drinkers confirmed. Arlece was not there.

Pelmen traded a thinly rolled leaf containing spices for a tankard of beer and sat down at a table, where he waited. There weren’t a lot of customers at this time of day—only a few regulars expressing themselves in slurred voices.

Eventually, the confident silhouette of Arlece appeared in the doorway. He was clad in necot and wearing an ivory necklace. His characteristic sly smile froze momentarily as he spotted Pelmen. He sat down and summoned the innkeeper with a familiar gesture; who appeared quickly and served him with deference.

They drank at the same time, Pelmen making an effort not to wrinkle his nostrils on sniffing Arlece’s perfume, “Have you thought about my offer?” Pelmen asked.

“Your talent for bartering isn’t much better than it is for wrestling.”

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Pelmen’s nostrils quivered.

“Let’s see,” Arlece continued. “You’re proposing to teach me what little you know about archery in exchange for what I can reveal to you about wrestling. That looks like a fool’s bargain, doesn’t it?”

“Because you think you’re a good enough archer?”

“Exactly.”

“Then you’ve brought me here for nothing.” Pelmen stood up.

“Come on, come on! Don’t get huffy. Do you want to succeed in the Recruitment tournament—yes or no?”

Pelmen looked at Arlece suspiciously.

“Without my help,” Arlece declared, “you know as well as I do all the winds of Aoles aren’t sufficient to make a hunter out of you.”

“You have a very high opinion of yourself,” said Pelmen, sitting down again reluctantly.

“I fought you, remember? I know what I can do for you. And if I help you to finish in the top sixteen, you’ll be selected by the representatives of Tchulen Poindivoire.”

“How do you intend to do that?”

“I don’t say it will be easy, but it’s possible. You lack the basic techniques, and you can’t learn them on your own.”

“And in exchange?”

“In exchange, all I ask is your bow.”

Pelmen’s eyes widened. He almost burst out laughing. “Only my bow?” he murmured. “Preposterous.”

“Of course, you’ll keep it for the duration of the tournament.

Afterward, once you’re a hunter, it’ll be mine. Believe me, it’s not too high a price. What I teach you will serve you all your life, whereas the bow…”

“Its range surpasses what most can achieve.”

“How do you know?”

“The man who made it told me.”

“Probably so he could sell it to you! Take it from me, don’t let the chance pass you by.”

“Sorry, but it’s out of the question.”

Arlece’s jaw clenched, but he contented himself with staring into his tankard as Pelmen stood up and left the tavern.

100

Pelmen spent the rest of the day furiously fighting various adversaries on one of the stages of the recreation platform. He saw Arlece going past the combat arena, avoiding meeting his gaze, heading for the archery range. Pelmen tried to remember his rival’s techniques, but his movements were clumsy. He lost against three opponents out of four, and only succeeded in dragging the fourth off the stage with him.

The next day, he got a camlorn from his uncle, which he took to the Sanctuary the same evening. The guard with the weatherbeaten features happened to be on duty again when Pelmen, his legs weary, reached the stone gateway. Apparently satisfied with the payment, the hunter told him to wait outside while he passed on the message, which was easy to remember. Pelmen invited Alicene to join him immediately if possible and if not, to arrange a meeting.

Pelmen waited, patiently at first. The wait was prolonged to such an extent he began to wonder whether the guard was making a fool of him. The second sentinel refused to let him pass “just to take a look,” which only added to his frustration.

Finally, a slender silhouette appeared, hidden beneath a shawl.

Alicene was clad in a long dress that was becoming, but had not taken any particular care arranging her hair. In spite of her recent status as a maidservant, she still walked with dignity.

Pelmen uttered a strangled word of greeting, having momentarily forgotten the purpose of his visit.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again,” said Alicene. “I thought you might have forgotten us.”

“I…I would have been very ungrateful if that were the case,” Pelmen stammered, blushing, “but it hasn’t been easy to get to see you.

I had a hard time finding your brother too.”

“Is he well?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“I’ve been so busy with my work here I haven’t had time to think about him.”

“Is the Carpenter treating you well, at least?”

“Yes, his maidservants are privileged. He’s been courteous thus far.”

“So much the better.”

“It’s kind of you to worry about me.”

101

Pelmen blushed again. “It’s just that…you and your brother…are going to need all the help I can give you.”

“You think so?”

Pelmen looked at her in surprise. “You’ve lost your shop! Don’t you think that’s revolting?”

“Aoles and Tinmal have turned away from us, it’s true. But that might change.”

“That must change. If I succeed in becoming a hunter…” Pelmen hesitated. He had never thought in concrete terms about what his future steps might be. He had a sudden inspiration. “I’ll try to get myself assigned to the Sanctuary.” He lowered his voice. “I’ll use all my influence to get you out of here.”

“And what if that doesn’t work?”

“Perhaps I’ll need to use other methods.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well…” Seeing Alicene’s furrowed brow, Pelmen hesitated, struck suddenly by the fact that he had no plan of action. “I need to think about it. To talk about that now would be premature. For the moment, the essential thing is for me to find a wrestling master— someone who’ll be able to train me for the tournament.”

“There might be someone here.”

“If that’s the case, let me know, will you?”

“Of course.” Alicene turned round, anxiously. “I’m sorry, but I need to go back now. I’ve been away too long.” She paused and then planted a furtive kiss on his cheek. By the time Pelmen had recovered from his surprise, her swirling dress had already passed through the doorway.

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